


Homeward

by Bommie20



Category: Spyro, Spyro the Dragon (Video Games)
Genre: A family can be five dragon elders and their purple son, Action, Explosions, Gen, Magic, Soul-Searching, classic Spyro - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-08-27 16:25:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 44,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16705864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bommie20/pseuds/Bommie20
Summary: After the events of Year of the Dragon, Spyro struggles to fit in with the Artisans and wonders if he would have been better off raised elsewhere.(Complete. Word count: 45,663)





	1. Chapter 1

(So... that remake, huh?)

* * *

Spyro was frustrated.

More so, Spyro was both frustrated and  _tired_. He'd been desperately trying to sleep for several hours, all four limbs splayed out flat as he rested on his stomach on the peak of a haphazard pile of glimmering gems. The smooth stone walls echoed with the sounds of gentle and… not-so-gentle snoring from the other dragons sharing the cave, each curled up atop their own mounds of precious stones and gold. Spyro adored the sensation of sleeping on gems, as stereotypical as that may be; the gentle warmth exuding from their polished surfaces reflected his own body heat, forming a barrier against the elements that fire just couldn't beat. Sure, he occasionally got jabbed in the back by a particular sharp point if it managed to breach the tender flesh between his scales, but it was so much more satisfying knowing that the pile of gems belonged to him and no one else. Each one had been collected from his travels across the realms, and although it didn't hold a candle to some of the elders' hoards, Spyro loved it all the same.

Speaking of which, he quietly manoeuvred himself onto his back and wriggled himself deeper into the pile of rocks, determined to find a comfier position. The quiet tinkering sound of gems bouncing off the exposed stone on the floor reverberated across the room as they were shed from the pile but did not rouse any of the sleeping dragons. He'd been struggling with peaceful sleep for a little while now, and even the subtle glow of the gems couldn't help lull him to slumber. Crossing his arms over his chest he closed his eyes tighter and tried to count sheep.

What started as an exercise to rest his mind turned into a fantasy revolving around shooting down sheep in flying saucers, causing his blood to boil. Spyro had been concerned about himself for at least a couple days, and couldn't seem to shake the blues that had been following him around. Sparx had noticed that he hadn't been his perky, cocky self but hadn't said anything, trusting that Spyro would come to him when the time was right.

Now, Spyro was frustrated, tired, and  _bored;_  a combination which never ends well.

He had been bothered by a passing comment made by one of the inhabitants of the other realms. Neither face nor name came to mind when trying to recall the individual in question, just another member of a species that he had safeguarded in his quest against the Sorceress. Spyro had kept his promise to Bianca to convince the dragons to return to the Forgotten Realms, a name which now seemed ironic at best, although it had taken very little effort on his part. A permanent portal was already active between the Dragon Realms and Avalar, so the dragons had all but jumped at the opportunity to repopulate what had originally been their ancestral home, with some families up and moving their entire existence to the new lands within weeks.

Many locals were baffled at this, with the dragons having only existed in the dusty pages of forgotten story books as far as they were concerned, but they also brought their magic with them and the effects were quickly felt: long abandoned portals began to operate, parched rivers began to flow again, and even the polluted skies had begun to clear up. For all the dragons were initially a shock to the system for those who had not known that they existed for the last several thousand years, the benefits were staggering and breathed life into what was previously a world on the verge of death.

Of course, Spyro had found himself at the forefront of all of this. With the exception of only the oldest and crustiest of citizens, Spyro was the first contact with dragon-kind that any living individual had ever had, and so was given a role as a sort of mediator between the many species. Some of the more incredulous races had been reluctant to allow the dragons to encroach on what they viewed as their territory, but having the actual saviour of all worlds and the sole reason why they weren't currently slaving away mining gems in Crystal Islands under the tyrannous hand of the Sorceress present made negotiating a little easier. Although it took some convincing, and enough bribery to make Moneybags jealous, most of the mergers had been successful and peaceful.

Thinking of this caused a gloomy look to cross Spyro's face, his yellow pointed tail twitching in irritation. An inhabitant of one of the many indistinct magical worlds had been particularly unhelpful, shutting down any opportunities to offer an proverbial olive branch and resolve their differences. The dragons had left defeated after it became apparent that this particular world was not going to open itself to the possibility of friendship or even vague acquaintanceship. Spyro's charitable deeds were widely known, but this didn't guarantee any level of trust from the inhabitants, especially those who had already preordained their stance on the situation. It was not an overwhelming problem – there were already more than enough realms welcoming the dragons with open arms and baited breath – but something that the individual had said had been passing through Spyro's mind since he caught it being uttered under muffled breath.

" _Bit brutish for a so called 'Artisan', eh?"_

Spyro let out a small exasperated puff of smoke from his nostrils and pulled himself from his futile doze, wincing as his shoulder blades cracked as he stretched his wings. This was a question he was not unfamiliar with and had pondered himself over the years, even before he had found himself yanked into peril time and time again. He knew he was hatched and raised within the tranquil fortifications of Stone Hill, but the other Artisans were almost like a different species altogether. The majority spent their time in quiet seclusion slaving over their chosen trades, producing staggeringly beautiful works of art and craftsmanship that were strongly sought after across the realms by all kinds of collectors and aficionados. The only exception being Darius, whose impromptu bouts of deeply _'passionate'_  poetry recitals could be heard from the next Homeworld over. At least he was enthusiastic.

He ungracefully slid down the side of his hoard, arching his back and stretching his legs out in front of him as his feet hit the frosty stone floor, the crackles coming from his joints leaving a satisfying ache as his body woke from rest. Sparx was already sluggishly buzzing around the room, dazed from being woken so suddenly and at such a late hour. Spyro had hoped to sneak out on his own but he had known better than to think that his dragonfly friend would sleep soundly while he cavorted off to other worlds.

"Come on, Sparx," he muttered, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to clear his hazy vision. "I want to speak to someone."

That was, if he could find him. Nestor had become notoriously difficult to track down these days.

* * *

For all Nestor had not been surprised when Spyro had approached him, he was not expecting it to happen so soon.

Nestor was already the leader of the Artisans well before Spyro's egg west presented to him during the last Year of the Dragon. The Magic Crafters had always been the ones to care for the unhatched eggs after they were delivered by the fairies: the deep saturation of magic that permeated every inch of the Homeworld proved vital to the development of the unhatched dragons, and the local fauna were mostly harmless, barring the giant metal spiders in the caves. Nestor was not on the most... amicable of terms with Cosmos, the leader of the Magic Crafters, and this had not changed even after he was promoted as leader of the Artisans, but he would not trust any other dragon with such a crucial role. Cosmos claimed to have no time for children of any sort, declaring their endless pools of energy to be nothing sort of perturbing and disruptive to his studies, yet he had a strict and almost fatherly disposition about him and had taken up the mantle ever since it was assigned to him, willingly or not.

Nestor still remembered the day that Cosmos bequeathed him the egg that housed the purple dragon. The Magic Crafters would sort the eggs shortly before their hatching date to determine which Homeworld they should be raised in based on their inherent magic signature. He didn't understand how they did it regardless of how many times the increasingly exasperated Cosmos had explained it to him, but the Magic Crafters had some way of deducing where an unborn dragon's talent would lie. No dragon was ever raised by their biological parents, with the job of nurturing the pups falling on the shoulders of every dragon in the Homeworld. Nestor himself would never find out which two dragons had spawned his egg, nor would any dragon, and he had no desire to discover this fact. This fragment of information was known only to the fairies that guarded the eggs before they were ready to be sifted by the Magic Crafters, not that he felt this matter held any weight in his actualisation as an individual.

He was informed that all of the clutches of eggs had already been dispersed to their respective Homeworlds, ready to be reared by those who shared their talents, all barring one: a single indistinct amethyst-spotted egg with no discerning features to set it apart from the other dozens of eggs already adopted into their new communities. With no details regarding lineage or the identity of the parents, it almost seemed like it had appeared out of thin air. Not even the fairies who delivered the egg could offer any insight as to the origin of the egg or its mysterious inhabitant - one of the few times that Nestor had wished the dragons regarded this knowledge as more than useless trivia.

Even more suspicious was its lack of magic signature: nothing about it matched any of the existing Homeworlds.

He had taken it under his wing, literally speaking, even though he had no idea if the dragon inside would evolve to be an Artisan like him. He knew the myriad of risks of his decision: a dragon raised by a community who was not his own kin could find himself without the ability to control their innate magic, which could and  _had_  led to disastrous results. Nestor still felt a tsunami of regret wash over him at the memory of the last dragon to fall to this fate, even after he had been banished to the Volcanic Isle after developing an unhealthy obsession with Dark Magic. But looking at the lonely egg and weighed down under the knowledge that the other leaders had turned it away had melted his heart. He would have been nought but the lowest of scum, lower than any gnorc, if he had left the egg to its fate.

Nestor almost cracked a smile at this memory before gently setting down his hammer. He had found himself aimlessly wandering Avalar and the Forgotten Realms after the portal had been opened, finding with surprise that his expertise with carpentry had made him an extremely valuable resource to many of the inhabitants of the new worlds. Presently he was deep in the impenetrable jungles of Idol Springs, insistently striving to educate the foremen on the proper technique for carving idols in such a way that they  _wouldn't_  spring to life and attempt a hostile takeover with... limited success. It was rough, hands-on work, but it paid well, and he would be a poor excuse for a dragon to reject any opportunity to add to the treasury. He couldn't even remember the last time he had stepped foot inside the Artisan Homeworld.

"How long have you felt like this?" he asked the smaller dragon, who was currently hunched over in an embarrassed stance, avoiding eye contact. Sparx was hovering nearby, casting a beautiful golden glow onto the surface of the intricately painted idols that he inspected, but Nestor could tell that he was listening in too.

"Just a couple of days," Spyro replied, sheepishly running his palm through the canary yellow spines on his nape. "I know you always say not to pay attention to what other people have to say about dragons unless they can prove that they know what they're talking about, but…"

Nestor sighed deeply before turning to face the dragon pup. He had been preparing what to say what this topic eventually arose for several years, but now that he found himself in the moment he couldn't remember the words he had planned. While he had spent many a night wishing that Spyro would eventually grow out of his overconfidence, a trait which was not helped by the praise endlessly showered upon him after his many treks across the realms, this was perhaps not the method he would have chosen.

"Spyro, what you're feeling is normal," the emerald dragon reassured, his words not entirely false. "Just because you're an Artisan does not mean that you can't possibly be good at anything else."

Spyro sat up a little straighter, his gaze more intensely focused on the older dragon as his words began to sink in.

"How many Beast Makers use spells created by the Magic Crafters to harness the power of electricity? How many Dream Weavers use scrying glasses made by the Artisans? How many Peace Keepers use weapons infused with magic?" Nestor picked up his hammer and resumed chiselling away at the half-formed idol. "The worlds aren't as black and white as you're making them seem, Spyro."

"I know that," Spyro responded indignantly, squatting on his hind legs and crossing his arms. "But I've tried all the different 'artisan' forms I can think of and I'm terrible at everything!"

Nestor suppressed a chuckle at that last point, his tail waving in amusement. He couldn't necessarily disagree with the small dragon. He was fairly certain that Tomas was still traumatised by Spyro's rendition of Green Sleeves on an electric guitar. Whatever Beast Maker had thought that prank would go over well had a lot to answer for.

"Alright then," he retorted, his attention resolutely fixed on the wooden figure. "If you feel so passionately about this whole thing then why don't I see if I can organise an internship with the other elders? I don't know if that will necessarily resolve everything, but maybe if you tried something different you'll find your calling."

Spyro immediately perked up at this, eyes lighting up and jumping to his feet.

"You'd do that?" he asked, barely restraining his enthusiasm. Sparx was now being frantically chased around by a pack of hula girls, some of which were living wooden idols. Neither dragon found this to be particularly alarming, considering everything they had been through.

"Sure," Nestor replied, smiling slightly to himself. He knew a couple of the elders would want to annihilate him for this, but he couldn't resist the pining of the purple dragon. The humour of the other leaders had not necessarily improved with age. Spyro practically launched into the air in joy, his wings almost a blur.

"Sparx!" he yelled, immediately drawing the dramatic chase scene going on behind him to a jarring close. "Pack our bags, we're going on a vacation! And hopefully no detours this time!"

Nestor turned away and inspected his newest idol as the duo charged away to prepare. It was not his finest work, having been interrupted part of the way through, but it still held a sort of captivating rustic charm. And it didn't come to life and attack him, which was an all too common occurrence in Idol Springs. He sheathed his tools in his belt and gazed wistfully as the storm clouds emerging overhead as the hula girls began their rain dance for the umpteenth time. He wondered if he should take a trip back to the Artisan home; he was the leader after all, and he hadn't visited the Homeworld that he was supposed to have authority over for far too long. Besides, he would probably have some explaining to do when Spyro started turning up at the other leaders' doorstep.

Shaking his head in thought he packed up and made his way indoors and out of the pattering of the rain. He should probably warn the others for what was about to hit them - they would probably need all the luck they could get.


	2. Chapter 2

(Any guesses on who my favourite elder is? I'll give you three tries.)

* * *

Cosmos would swear on his own life that he did not dislike Spyro.

Anyone who was fortunate enough to know the turquoise dragon personally would describe him as overly dramatic, maybe a little arrogant, and definitely humourless. His many years of leading the Magic Crafters had fostered a strict demeanour that encouraged a drive for perfection and excellence in his own work and that of his peers. He was frustrated by even the smallest error, which was not all that surprising considering that a tiny mistake in a carefully Crafted spell could have… explosive results. He had always prided himself in refraining from the careless whimsy of the Dream Weavers, the unmethodical attitude of the Artisans, or the blasphemy of the Beast Makers: his work was always useful, always safe, and always  _correct_. Heaven help any dragon under his tutelage who attempted to cut corners under his ever watchful gaze.

No, he didn't dislike Spyro; it would be completely unreasonable for him to do so when the young dragon was the sole reason for his current liberation from a lifetime as a crystal lawn ornament. Rather, the reserved elder merely tolerated his presence. Spyro's unpredictable and carefree nature was as foreign to Cosmos as the back of his wing; his tendencies to get into trouble out of sheer boredom and his unorthodox methods of cruising through any problem that came at him horns first was a far cry from his own experiences, and he didn't always know how to react to that. He could deal with equations and correlations, heck he could even deal with the rapidly changing flux created by magic, but this was something else.

Spyro had appeared out of the blue in his usual fashion while Cosmos was meditating in Cloud Temples amongst the Wizards. After the portals to Avalar and the Forgotten Realms had opened he had used the opportunity to visit the various magic-centred worlds and absorb as much knowledge as he could. Almost every realm had been overjoyed to be blessed with the presence of a dragon so he had found very little resistance, barring a couple of the more… primitive worlds. He had poured over books and scrolls with centuries worth of incantations and practises, determined to use any knowledge he could find to further his progress into the studies of magic. He may have also been chased out of a couple portals when attempting to  _borrow_  some of the rarer scriptures for his own library. He was intending on returning them when he was done… eventually.

Spyro had come barging in loudly, tearing Cosmos violently out of his deep meditation and waving a sheet of parchment in his face, demanding tutoring. He was practically exploding with uncontrolled energy, bouncing around the room and into several piles of books, accompanied at all times by his very patient dragonfly. Cosmos didn't know how to react to this spectacle at first, not an unusual situation when Spyro was involved, but managed to break out of his stupor long enough to look down and read the inscription on the parchment.

He frowned deeply.

Cosmos had not forgotten the conundrum surrounding Spyro's egg when it was first delivered by the fairies, nor had he forgotten the expression on Nestor's face at the realisation that the other elders had turned the unborn dragon down. He could not necessarily blame them: taking on responsibility for a dragon with no idea if the child was fated for that Homeworld was a huge ask, and the other leaders had their own clutches to rear that had already been identified as belonging to their kin. He had hoped that Titan would have agreed to rear the dragon pup in the Peace Keepers Homeworld, seeing as almost any dragon could defend itself regardless of its origin, but they had been so inundated with Gnorc attacks that he couldn't spare the time or resources.

Quietly sliding the note to one side, he stood up and halted the energetic Spyro, fruitlessly trying to ignore the pins and needles in his legs as they woke from their sedentary position long after the rest of his limbs.

"I hope you realise how unconventional this is," he mused, Spyro now sitting in one place but barely keeping himself together. "For all Nestor is correct in some regards, it is not common for a dragon to specialise in more than one art."

Spyro frowned at this.

"But, Nestor said- "

"I  **know**  what Nestor said," Cosmos interrupted sharply, the younger dragon blinking in shock. "Nestor says the same thing to every dragon that asks. He probably gave you the usual spiel about the worlds not being all 'black and white'."

Spyro nodded.

"He is not completely wrong," Cosmos contemplated, the rings on his horns clinking as he shook his head in thought. "There are many applications for all disciplines across the Realms. Why, my own staff was created by one of the best Artisan crafters in the worlds, rest his soul, made of the finest ocean crystals and hand-sculpted with pure gold, passed down from generation to generation by my predecessor's elder's elder!"

Cosmos coughed and brought himself back to earth as Spyro's eyes began to glaze over.

"Ahem, that is to say, what has brought this all on so suddenly?"

"Well…" Spyro murmured, immediately breaking eye contact. "I'm just starting to wonder if I'll ever fit in with the other Artisans at this point. We don't really… have a lot in common."

Cosmos couldn't blame Spyro for feeling that way. The Artisans had a penchant for being laidback to the point of being unreliable and irresponsible, and were often so deeply wrapped up in their crafts that they had a reputation for failing to take action. He knew that stereotyping all Artisans this way was an insult to their incredible craftsmanship, but very few dragons had defied his expectations of their race. Spyro was one of them. Realising that he was perhaps being too harsh on the amethyst scaled dragon, he relaxed his stance and crossed his arms behind his back.

"Very well, for all I don't agree with Nestor I do trust his intuition. I'm happy to have you learn from me." Spyro's face immediately broke out into a wide smile from ear to ear, but Cosmos held his hand out to stop him before he could interrupt. "However, I need you to know that I take my studies very seriously. I don't want any of that mischief that you're so well known for getting in the way."

Spyro wasn't sure whether to be insulted or proud of his reputation, but he sobered up anyway. Standing on his hind legs he gave a brash salute, replicated by his dragonfly.

"Sir, yes sir!"

"That's exactly what I _don't_  want," said Cosmos with a deadpan expression his face. "Meet me in the courtyard outside, I need to get some things together."

Spyro flinched as the seafoam green elder turned away from him and began packing up his meditating equipment, scurrying off before he could be berated further. Cosmos let out a slight sigh after hearing that the younger dragon had left. He wasn't sure if it was just his old age or his line of work, but his tolerance for the youth grew shorter every day. He knew Spyro didn't mean any harm, so resolved to be less harsh against him in the future. Clearing away his space he again collected the crumpled parchment and reread the message from Nestor.

Cosmos had resolved not to ponder on the Legend of the Purple Dragon too much, even before Spyro entered the picture. He wasn't alive when the Dream Weavers had written the prophecy surrounding the breed, but he  _had_ been there when other purple dragons had hatched, none of which had revealed themselves to be the dragon of lore. He knew more than one dragon hatchling that had been ruined by having such high expectations forced upon them and the crushing weight of being unable to meet them. Cosmos had come to believe that the quest to find the Purple Dragon had caused more damage than if it never appears at all. This was a stance that he was determined to carry with him across the rearing of the new-born dragons that had been recovered from the Sorceress.

However, Nestor was right. He would certainly never admit it to his face for fear of being taunted by the other elders, but he couldn't deny that all the signs were there. Cosmos wanted to shred the parchment in frustration and scatter the pieces to the wind, but was reluctant to sacrifice even a tiny shred of information that could otherwise contribute to his hoard. He reluctantly folded it and added the letter to his pile. His bookshelves were already close to bursting at the seams with probably hundreds of books, but something told him that he would be writing another one soon.

* * *

The biting cold of the wind seemed to sting against the tender skin around Spyro's eyes and between his toes, not even the smouldering coals of magic in his belly enough to block out the chill. Cloud Temples really lived up to its name – it was built on such a high mountain peak that the land below was completely shrouded by dense clouds as far as the eye could see. It was a wonder that the whole place wasn't snowed under, a testament to the strength of the Wizards' magic and something that they were unabashedly proud of. Still, the lack of snow did nothing to prevent Spyro from desperately attempting to hold in shivers.

"Alright, Spyro," Cosmos stated, now used to the icy blasts of wind and therefore unrelenting in his stance. "What do you know about magic?"

"Umm…" Spyro pondered. "Not a whole lot. I know that it can be used as a power source, and it's what we use to breathe fire and fly. The fairies seem to use a lot of it…"

Spyro trailed off, suddenly struck with the realisation that he knew very little about the topic that he was so desperate to learn before any others. Cosmos waved a hand nonchalantly, his expression stoic.

"That's not a worry. I would rather you know very little than all the wrong information," Cosmos acknowledged, beginning to pace around the courtyard. "Trying to correct bad form is a nightmare on its own. Magic is so sensitive that even the tiniest misdirection can have disastrous results, and I don't wish to repay the kindness of the Wizards by blowing a hole in the Temple wall."

Cosmos ceased in his pacing for a brief moment to hand Spyro a large leather-bound tome, dyed a deep royal blue and intricately embellished with gold leaf. The name of the author was long faded past the point of legibility and the pages were dog-eared due to repeat readings. It had cleared been loved by its previous owners.

"Turn to page 113, please."

Spyro did so, the large book weighing heavily in his arms. He resisted the urge to stop on any of the earlier pages, even the page that covered flight, and navigated to page 113. This page was covered with obscure symbols, each one encased within a circle and titled with various words. 'Create'. 'Destroy'. 'Beast'. Spyro glanced up at the elder dragon and raised a single eyebrow suspiciously.

"What is all this stuff?"

"This  _stuff_ ," Cosmos snorted, "is the basis of any magic spell.  _Sigils_." He crouched down and pointed to the symbol for 'Create'. "When you use magic you need to have a way to tell it what you want it to do, what effects that you're looking for. Magic on its own has no power and needs guiding to have an impact on the material word. Sigils are used as instructions for the magic to follow."

Spyro's eyes widened and he peered at the book more closely, his tail waving with his renewed concentration. Now that he understood what he was looking at his attention was piqued as he scanned each symbol.

"Every Sigil you see was created through trial and error," Cosmos began to lecture, tactically leaving out that this process was indeed mostly error. "When Crafting a spell it is often necessary to try multiple combinations of Sigils to find which set produces the desired effects."

Spyro suddenly looked up in confusion.

"Crafting a spell?" he queried. "Why can't I just use spells that someone else made?"

Cosmos pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

"Because we're Magic  _Crafters_ , Spyro. Crafting spells is at the very core of what we do. Besides," he explained, again with his arms crossed behind his back. "Every dragon is different, so a spell Crafted by me may not work for you, and vice versa. Here, let me demonstrate."

The turquoise dragon stepped back purposefully, wings taut against his back, unlocking his arms and raising them out in front of him while Spyro looked on in awe. Cosmos grunted and seemed to strain for a moment before a shimmering transparent globe appeared around him, slightly distorting his appearance inside as light began to bend across its surface. Spyro dropped the heavy tome on the ground in amazement until the orb vanished, Cosmos straightening himself back up and regaining his regal posture.

"That was a spell I Crafted around a decade ago using the Sigils 'Defend' and 'Circle'," Cosmos stated proudly. This was a fairly simple spell but never failed to get a rise out of any young dragon. "You could also use the Sigils for 'Create' and 'Barrier', or even 'Repel' and 'Damage' if that suited you better." He bent over and retrieved the ancient book, ignoring the ache in his back, and dusted the tome off before returning it to the grasp of the dragon pup.

"I want you to Craft a spell," he instructed. "It doesn't have to be that original, or even particularly useful, but it must be made by you. Use any combination of Sigils that you like. Then come and show me what you've made."

Cosmos smiled to himself in memory of one of his first spells. He had jumped the gun and went straight for a spell that he thought would be useful and found himself way over his head after accidentally summoning and being flattened by a very confused ogre. He did not doubt that Spyro would attempt something similar, however it was likely that his spell would not succeed at all. Spyro didn't have enough magic control for sustained flight, never mind for a complex spell, however it would still be a valuable exercise. He pretended to ignore the mischievous look on the purple dragon's face and let him leave. He doubted he would be waiting long.

* * *

The first thing Spyro had done was try to find out which spell would be the most useful. He didn't see any value in pursuing a goal that didn't possess immediately obvious benefits, although he did consider impressing the dragon elder a noble cause. He had done his best to memorise every Sigil he thought worthwhile, but his inability to keep his attention made his mind start to wander. He began to imagine himself dressed in a tall pointed wizard hat zapping egg thieves with lightning that shot from his fingertips. He practically had to shake himself out of his fantasies before he spent the entire day with his head in the clouds.

After eventually giving up trying on his own he tracked down Bianca. She was the best magician that Spyro knew, which maybe wasn't saying a lot, and he was done with trying to figure out the pages upon pages of Sigils with them all starting to blur together into one incoherent squiggly mess. Bianca was at least easier to find than either of the dragon elders, having taken over the Sorceress' castle in Midnight Mountain with the intention of using the remainders of the evil witch's work to undo the damage that she had been instrumental in causing. Very few of the affected realms would even entertain the idea of the rabbit reforming, which she didn't blame them for, although this had meant she had become a bit of a recluse. She would always swear that she didn't mind, preferring the quite solitude for her studies. Spyro thought she could probably get out more.

Speaking of which, Bianca was currently nose deep in the dusty pages of the dragon tome, hungrily devouring every word she could understand. She hadn't been sure whether to be suspicious or not when Spyro had approached her - the tension between them was not completely cleared - but she couldn't resist herself when the dragon had freely handed over what was essential centuries worth of dragon magic without a second thought. The bubbling cauldron filled with effervescent glowing liquid and a single lit lamp were the only source of light, barring the glow coming from Sparx who had not left Spyro's side.

"So, uhh… Bianca," Spyro said, drawing her out of her trance-like state. "About the Sigils."

"Oh, right, sorry," she meekly replied, quickly flicking away from the page about healing magic that she had been trying to memorise. "What sort of spell do you have in mind?"

"Well, I was wondering… if you could teach me how you summoned the butterfly that one time."

Bianca was stunned. She wasn't sure if she should be offended at the dragon bringing up what had been one of her most embarrassing moments, but she could see the genuine interest in his eyes and was satisfied that he wasn't doing it to drag up the past. Spyro was maybe a little tactless, but she knew how many scholars would have sacrificed their firstborn for the chance to tutor a dragon. She pondered this conundrum for a moment, absentmindedly rubbing the fur on her chin with her thumb while she considered her options. The rabbit returned the tome to the waiting dragon and quickly scampered up a large ladder to the top of the tallest bookshelf, using the golden light from Sparx to help guide her hand. She reached for a dull grey notebook in its depths and blew off the dust caked on the cover before returning to the floor.

"Here's the notebook I used when I was learning from the Sorceress," Bianca explained, thumbing through the pages. "She wouldn't let me touch her books in case I stole from them so I kept my own notes."

Spyro scowled at this but said nothing, content to let Bianca do her thing. She stopped at a page about a third of the way through the notebook, and gestured to a messily scribbled set of three Sigils.

"This is the spell I was… trying to use," she murmured indignantly. "This first Sigil is for 'Summon', the second is for 'Beast', and the third just indicates that the magic needs to take place in the same location as the caster. Summoning something is much easier than creating something from scratch." She distractedly scratched a spot behind her right ear. "I was aiming for a giant dinosaur ideally, but I should have specified what  _type_  of beast I wanted. That's why the spell didn't work as planned."

Bianca wasn't the most familiar with Crafting spells, which was a skill that was believed to be mostly lost to time after the dragons were banished by the Sorceress. After they took their sorcery and science with them a lot of the techniques had also been lost to the annals of history, leaving almost all magic users with only what they already knew and what was already recorded. These spells had been passed down and perfected, sure, but the idea of using Sigils to create an entirely  _new_  spell was not something that any magician worth his salt would dedicate his time to when the results could be potentially career-ending if something went wrong. Spyro looked at the notebook, then back at the tome, then back at the notebook again.

"Wait, why are the Sigils different?" he exclaimed. "The ones in your book don't look anything like the ones in mine!"

Bianca reminded herself that she was dealing with a complete beginner and that she should really be more thorough with her explanations.

"Spyro, the actual appearance of the Sigil doesn't matter," she responded to the now extremely confused dragon. "The Sigil is just a way of directing the magic into doing your bidding. The intention and belief of the user is more important. It's just something you have to  _feel._ "

She closed her notebook and returned it to the shelf on a lower rung. The only reason she had kept it at the top was because she knew the Sorceress would never bother to put in the physical exertion to haul herself up the ladder that high, not that this was a problem anymore.

"Maybe instead of focusing on the specific Sigil, you should just see what works for you."

Spyro still looked very confused, but at least determined. Bianca could appreciate his resilience, although it could very easily tip over into stubbornness. She was reminded that this was that trait that the Sorceress had seen in her, but shook this thought out of her head.

"Thanks, Bianca," Spyro said warmly. "I think that's a little clearer. I better go and practise, huh."

She barely had time to nod her head before the young dragon was out the door. She considered following him, but resolved herself to continue her work on the glowing liquid in the cauldron. She was hoping to have had time to meticulously copy every page in the tome before Spyro could leave, but she should have known better than to trust that he would sit in one place long enough for that to happen. Turning off the stove she promptly tipped out the entire contents of her cauldron down a drain, dodging the spitting liquid as it fizzled away. She hoped she had memorised enough from the book to create some kind of healing elixir that she could use to demonstrate her trustworthiness to the other realms. She couldn't help but ponder what wealth of knowledge lay with the dragons after all the millennia exiled to the Dragon Realms, but knew she would have to approach them if she was ever to have access to any of it.

Maybe she should get out more.

* * *

Spyro had returned to Cosmos just over a day later, who had been drinking tea and watching the rams charge at each other and knock themselves out cold. This was a common past time for the Wizards who apparently had very little else to occupy their time; although Cosmos found the spectacle to be thoroughly vulgar he did enjoy a piping hot cup of tea to ward off the cold that permeated every building in the Temples. Magic Crafters might be more resilient when faced with cold weather, with most of their settlements built around snow-frosted mountains anyway, but that didn't mean he liked it. There was no chance that Spyro had developed a working spell within such a short time: more likely he was returning to either admit defeat or pick his brain for clues or tricks.

He was taken aback when Spyro announced that he was ready to demonstrate his spell.

Humouring the small dragon he followed him to the courtyard outside, cup of tea still in hand. The Wizards had heard of Spyro's presence, although it was very difficult to miss him with the noise he was making, and had gathered around to watch. The envy was palpable: the opportunity to train a dragon in magic was one that any magic user would die for, whether the dragon in question was adept in magic or not. Spyro was springing up and down in place waiting for Cosmos to join him as he took his time. He hoped that Spyro would learn the virtue of patience sometime soon, preferably before the older dragon suffered an aneurysm.

"Come on, come on!" Spyro pushed. "Wait 'til you see this!"

"Are you absolutely certain?" Cosmos queried, taking another sip of his tea and swilling it in his mouth before swallowing. "It normally takes a good week for a spell to be considered functional, nevermind perfected."

"Don't worry about it," Spyro smirked, cocky as always. "I got some pointers from someone who knows more about what they're doing than me."

Cosmos raised an eyebrow at this. He wouldn't consider himself openly competitive, but he felt a little slighted that the people dragon had approached someone else for help. He gestured for Spyro to continue, internally bracing himself for a potential explosion or worse.

Spyro raised himself onto his hind legs, a stance that he wasn't old enough to be comfortable with, and rubbed his palms together. He was already savvy regarding the magic he used to breathe fire so the heat produced by his palms was familiar enough to get the spell going. He  _might_  had flicked a few pages back in the tome, desperate to find any kind of shortcut that he could abuse to get out of memorising the Sigils, but the author of the book was very insistent that using the Sigils was the best way. He had eventually given up on using the set Sigils entirely, remembering Bianca's advice to avoid getting caught up in the small details, and instead had fallen back on simply picturing the result of the spell in his head and keeping his fingers crossed. He just wanted to be out of the realm before the others encountered the results of his  _last_  attempt.

Clenching his eyes closed he began to focus on the space in between his palms. Cosmos could feel the magic building up between them, although it was very faint and nowhere near enough to have any distinguishable effect. He was impressed that Spyro had figured this part out on his own, but he wasn't expecting much. He took another sip of his tea, savouring the rush of sweetness and warmth against his barbed tongue before swallowing.

Spyro tried to fixate on the burning of his fire magic in his chest and pushed it down his arms and into his awaiting palms. An intense tingling sensation overtook his upper half with the effort but he kept pushing through it, ignoring the feeling of lava running through his veins. As the scalding heat reached his fingertips he took a deep breath, opened his arms as wide as he could, and  _ **slammed**_ them together with all the strength he had.

Nothing happened.

Opening his eyes he looked at his palms, the tingling rapidly fading to a dull ache that penetrated deep within his muscles. Why had it not worked? Did he not put enough magic behind the spell? The pain in his forearms would indicate otherwise, as would the numerous sparks of irridescent light that scattered to the floor in front of him before being absorbed into the earth, but his surroundings remained unchanged by his efforts. Clasping his hands in frustration he glanced up at Cosmos.

"Let me try again, I almost had it!"

Cosmos tried his best to keep his amusement off his face for fear of insulting the younger dragon. He could sense that the magic created had not been strong enough, nor did it have any direction, so his predictions had been correct, as always. Still, the tenacity of the amethyst dragon to keep trying despite his failure was something that he wished all of his student had and was a trait that deserved to be nurtured.

"Go ahead," he replied. "But this time put more thought into what you want the intention of the spell to be."

Spyro nodded firmly and closed his eyes again. Refocusing his magic back into his palms he heeded Cosmos' advice and built an impression in his mind of what he wanted. He constructed a mental image beginning with the head, moving over the fragile body and finally ending at the tip of each wing. The pins and needles in his arms increased the longer he focused to the point where it started to make him feel lightheaded but he kept his concentration. Once more he opened his arms and  _ **slammed**_  them together and pushed as hard as he could.

After the white spots cleared from his vision he could see a single gold and pink butterfly flapping its wings in the breeze.

* * *

Cosmos remembered the first spell he had Crafted. He had already been singled out among his peers as being ahead of any developmental milestones, having already mastered more than one breath type and earned his wings before any others in the same class. He was ravenous for knowledge, preferring to spur any interaction with his peers in order to fuel his insatiable desire for knowledge. He had already burned through all the books in the academy library by the time that he had realised this had estranged himself from any other dragons his age. He had no idea how to interact with them; none of his books could provide concrete solutions for talking to others, and their reactions were so varied and unpredictable that he wasn't able to find any correlation between his words and their impression of him.

He liked books more – books didn't change their words after more than one reading. You could determine their contents just by looking at the front page. You could put them down and pick them back up right where you left them off.

Dragons weren't like that and he didn't understand it. It was easier to allow himself to be swept deeper into his academic studies, pushed by the expectations of his teachers, and strived for perfection in his work. This is what landed him with an Apprenticeship under the currently reigning Magic Crafters elder, a bitter but wise old dragon with one bad eye and a terrible limp, but who's mind was sharp enough to cut through diamond and a tongue to match. He had revered the old coot and had doted on his every word, determined to gain the praise that he had missed from his childhood.

His first spell was a teleportation spell. Blinded by his desire to exceed above all others he had brushed past the simple teachings and cantrips and jumped straight to the complex magic. What use was a spell to conjure a brief gust of wind, or move a small object, or make pigs dance with music: his work was always useful, always safe, and always  _correct_. He was consumed with the desire to prove himself above the levels of any other dragon before him and had jumped straight into the deep end without knowing how to swim.

Metaphorically, of course.

Memorising the Sigils for 'Move', 'Dimension', and 'Object' he had attempted to teleport an apple from one side of his lodging to the other. He daren't try this new magic on himself for fear of losing a limb or two, which turned out to be a good call as the apple was shredded into pieces within moments of him unleashing his magic upon it. It tasted good in a pie, but Cosmos was left unsatisfied with his work. Refusing to admit that he was out of his depth he tried again, and again, and again, to the point where the kitchen staff had starting locking the pantry door to prevent any thievery.

When the time came to present his spell to his tutor he was left ashamed. Not a single attempt at teleporting any kind of fruit had worked and he had nothing to show for his week of toil other than a newfound sense of modesty. Meanwhile, the students that he had proudly placed himself on a pedestal above had successfully Crafted their own spells and were promptly changing the colour of various objects, or blowing paper planes around the room, or summoning snowballs to shove down each other's trousers. He had seen their abilities as below his own, however his arrogance had held him back and now even their tiny achievements were miles above his own, encaged as he was within the vice-like claws of his own hubris.

His master had not been pleased, but understood. After being forced to assist the kitchen staff for a month Cosmos dived back into his studies, beginning back at the basics that he had willfully neglected. Soon his teleportation spell worked flawlessly every time, to the point where it was often used by dragons disappearing in beautiful golden rays of light and reappearing elsewhere. After his master had passed away he was the obvious successor, and for all he had grieved heavily he accepted his new role with vigour, determined to preserve the necessity of the basics and to not allow overconfidence to cloud the relevance of the simplest methods.

He saw much of himself in Spyro, to his distain: the same careless disregard for the base forms and his own safety and the brash way that he approached magic as a beast to be tamed, rather than as a tool to be used. He could see the amount of magic that was wasted in his spell, leaking out in between his fingers with no direction and dissipating into his surroundings. Very little was retained for the spell, resulting in the appearance of a simple butterfly and nothing more. He did note that Spyro had opted to summon a creature rather than create a new one from scratch, a wise decision for a new starter with very little command over magic.

The thought crossed his mind that Spyro could have summoned something much larger and much more  _dangerous_  with that amount of magic.

Shaking the thought out of his head he approached the stunned dragon pup. He was being applauded by the Wizards who had waited to watch the spectacle. While he soaked up the praise it was obvious that the spell had taken a lot out of him, as Cosmos noticed the beads of sweat on his forehead and the shaking of his limbs. Spyro lowered his horns towards Sparx who promptly gave a congratulatory headbutt in response.

"So," Cosmos said, the crowd falling silent under the eye of the imposing dragon elder. "What Sigils did you use?"

Spyro sat back on his hind legs and rubbed his hand through the spines on his nape, stubbornly ignoring the throbbing pain in his biceps.

"I didn't," he replied nonchalantly. "I couldn't remember any of the Sigils so I just thought about summoning the butterfly on its own."

This revelation was staggering. No wonder Spyro had wasted so much magic: the lack of Sigils had left the magic with no direction or instructions so any that wasn't completely contained between his palms had wandered off under its own whim. More so, the knowledge that Spyro had been able to summon a creature at  _all_  with no Sigil was mind-boggling. It must have manifested through sheer force of will alone.

"Spyro," Cosmos replied, the armour on his forearms scratching together as he crossed his arms. "I gave you that tome for a reason. Brute forcing your way through a spell isn't sustainable for higher forms of magic. It worked in this case because the creature summoned was very small, but for anything larger you would need more magic that you could hold in your body."

Cosmos gestured to why the butterfly previous hovered, before it found itself inside Sparx's belly. The dragonfly certainly wasn't complaining.

"Even the greatest swordsmith must first learn to craft a dagger."

"I know that," Spyro said meekly, not expecting to be chastised for succeeding. "I don't think the idea of Crafting is really for me. I don't really have the patience to memories all the basics."

Cosmos suspected as much, typical Artisan. Always chasing instant results and cutting corners to save work.

"Did your time here teach you what you wanted to know?"

Spyro considered this for a moment before nodding.

"I think so. Magic Crafting definitely isn't what I want to do for the rest of my life. N-Not that I'm ungrateful!" he quickly clarified, exchanging a look with his dragonfly. "I think I'll keep practising if I can, but following the rules in a book just isn't for me. Besides, my other attempts didn't go as well as I wanted and I get bored trying too many times."

Cosmos nodded.

"You best be off then, you probably have a couple other dragon elders to pester."

Cosmos was joking of course, in his own way, which Spyro seemed to understand. He returned the tome to the older dragon, bid the Wizards farewell, and disappeared into the portal with Sparx following close behind. It occurred to him that Spyro was perhaps too young to comprehend the finer points of his message, but this is something that would come with time. The whole ordeal had been nothing but stress for the dragon elder, but he couldn't ignore the creaking in his bones for much longer. Maybe it was time that he took an apprentice of his own. Smiling he downed the last of his tea, now stone cold.

It would be a week before he realised what Spyro meant by his other attempts failing when a giant dinosaur went on a rampage and crushed half the temple.

Never a dull moment with Spyro.


	3. Chapter 3

(I've seen a lot of fanfics that believe Spyro is actually a Peace Keeper, so here's my take on it.)

* * *

Titan was ecstatic to see Spyro.

He held a firm belief that the spirit of a dragon could be felt in the heat of his breath and the tip of his horn. He had very little time for the poncy uptight attitude of the Dream Weavers, the complacency of the Artisans, the loony nature of the Dream Weavers, or the meddling of the Beast Makers. He trusted in the feeling of his gut and the ground beneath his feet, and any references to 'destiny' or 'karma' belonged only to those too cowardly to grab their future by the horns and swing it around their head like a battle axe. You could either fight or you couldn't, and  _any_  dragon could fight. Even the scrawniest whelp could spit out a few hot coals, and this made every dragon useful.

No one knew this better than Spyro, a dragon who had risen above what had been decided as his station long before he was hatched and ploughed his way through countless worlds before he could even fly on his own. Titan fervently wished that some of his own newly hatched dragon pups would kick themselves into gear and take Spyro as a role model before he did it for them. What the purple dragon lacked in finesse and experience was made up for in waves of determination and what was most likely blind luck. Titan didn't know if Spyro was aware of the danger he was in, or if he was too young and immature to notice.

Not that he cared anyway, Spyro got his job done and did it well and that was all that mattered.

Titan had been pleading with Nestor to let him mentor the dragon pup for months, desperate to mould him into the fighting prodegy that he knew he could be, but the Artisan elder had resolutely refused. He saw the ways of the Peace Keepers as primitive and barbaric, and was concerned that any kind of formal training would bury the intuition and tenacity that had kept Spyro alive beneath piles of strict regimens and obedience training.  **Pah!** What had all his years of lying around admiring art and making shelves taught him about war? And Nestor dared to lecture him?! Titan wished that he had just defied the elders and mowed down Gnasty Gnorc when he had the chance. Not a single other dragon had the expertise necessary to talk to the orange-scaled leader in such a demeaning way like he was a hatchling sprog.

He had been truly gobsmacked when Spyro had appeared at his door with a note from Nestor looking for training. Either the old coot had finally gone senile and changed his stance on the matter, or the letter was forged, but that didn't matter to him! He was convinced that the young dragon would come to him when he realised his true purpose as a defender of the Dragon Realms! Spyro was in his element when in the throws of battle and Titan knew that the Artisans had nothing they could offer the purple dragon to keep him engaged. He had a bet with some of the other Peace Keepers as to how long it would take before Spyro had joined their ranks; someone owed him a lot of gems.

He briefly glanced at the parchment from Nestor before tossing it over his shoulder.

Titan had almost agreed to shelter the unhatched egg when it was presented by Cosmos all those years ago. So many of the other realms had a borderline obsessive focus on whether that dragon would be suited for their particular line of work, but the coral dragon saw this narrow minded approach as a waste of opportunity. Did the dragon have horns? Could he breathe fire? Could he walk forward in a straight line? Then he was welcome as a Peace Keeper! No one believed in the Legend of the Purple Dragon these days anyway except perhaps the superstitious Beast Maker. The only thing that stopped him from accepting was that Gnasty Gnorc had been mounting more and more vicious attacks each day and every soldier he could lay his hands on was tied up elsewhere. He just couldn't justify temporarily discharging any dragon to act as babysitter.

"Well, it's about time!" he proclaimed loudly, hand on his hips. "Are you ready to learn how a real Peace Keeper lives?"

"You bet!" Spyro responded, matching Titan's enthusiasm and puffing his chest out as hard as he could.

"Now that's what I like to hear!"

Titan beckoned the charged up dragon pup to follow him towards the centre of the Homeworld, leaving the neglected parchment to collect dust on the floor behind him. Spyro was over the moon and energetically trotted beside the taller dragon soaking up the view of the morning sun peeking over the edge of the canyon. He had always felt a sort of connection to the Peace Keepers; they shared the tendency to solve their problems with their horns, so it wasn't a surprise that this was the training that he was most looking forward to and had the highest hopes for. He may have defeated several comical villains in his time but he hadn't always come out on top, so any improvements he could make were more than welcome. He was at least more optimistic about this than his debacle with Magic Crafting - Spyro considered it a tentative success but the disapproval from Cosmos had shaken his resolve in his own abilities.

Spyro spotted a gaggle of newly hatched dragons playing in the square as they marched past, each accompanied by their own dragonfly in every colour of the rainbow, and butting heads with each other to try and force the other dragon out of an uneven ring that had been sketched into the dust on the ground. One of the dragon pups managed to hook their forearm under the other dragon's belly and quickly suplexed them into the dirt, locking their arms behind the other's head and holding them down. The other dragon pups cheered wildly while Gunnar clad in leather armour counted down, watching the pinned dragon desperately try to wriggle out with little success. Spyro was briefly concerned for the wellbeing of the restrained child and wondered if he should intervene, but it looked like the fight was all in good fun so decided to let them be. Besides, he severely doubted that anyone would be foolish enough to misbehave around a dragon with  _that_  many teeth.

"You actually came just in time," Titan mused, drawing Spyro out of his moment of reflection. "We're having some trouble with some Gnorcs so we could use another pair of wings on our side."

Titan was one of the few dragons that had not permanently relocated out of the Dragon Realms. After Spyro had returned from his well overdue vacation in Dragon Shores, the orange dragon was one of the first to promote the idea of opening a permanent link between the two worlds to try and rebuild what had been forcibly removed from them by the malice of the Sorceress. The other elders concurred, however they did not approve of his proposal involving a recon group comprised of various armed Peace Keepers to determine and eliminate any threat before the remaining dragons would follow. The others speculated that this would draw the ire of the locals whom Spyro had reported as being almost entirely peaceful, whereas Titan had seen this as a necessary display of strength and brotherhood among dragon-kind. Thus he had been banned from contributing in any way other than with his presence alone.

Titan had been appalled at this decision. Not only were they disregarding his authority as leader but they were potentially putting their safety on the line for the sake of formalities! The others were lucky that his strict discipline was enough to hold his anger back; any soldier under his watch knew better than to question the authority of any dragon above his station. He found there to be a fine line between constructive criticism and straight up blasphemy, something which the other elders clearly hadn't gotten through their rock-hard skulls. The only worlds that he had found himself even remotely invested in were Zephyr and Breeze Harbour, two realms that had been engaged in conflict since well before Spyro was involved. He had hoped to learn about their militaries but had been disgraced by their lack of conduct and disregard for the lives of the opposition.

War was intended to be an honourable sport, one in which both opponents fought to demonstrate their valour above that of their competitor but still recognised the strength of their enemies. It was a chance to tighten the bonds of brotherhood between fellow dragons and substantiate their prowess to their peers. The Land Blubbers and Breeze Builders approached their conflict using dirty tactics and low blows that left a foul taste in Titan's mouth. They were no better than cavemen beating each other over the head with sticks.

Shaking his head and bringing himself back down to earth he stopped himself and Spyro in front of the barracks for a briefing.

"So, here's the situation," he informed Spyro, standing to attention. "Some of the Gnorcs that are still running rampant after you sent Gnasty packing have been causing trouble around the Dragon Realms. We've tracked their location to an oasis in the desert outside the barrier around Cliff Town and we have reason to believe that they've been pilfering from our armoury."

Spyro sat back on his hind legs and listened in intently. He had spent so much time outside the Dragon Realms recently that this was all news to him - he didn't even know that any Gnorcs had remained after their leader was taken out, or that they even possessed the intelligence to organise themselves in any meaningful way. He felt a little disappointed in himself that he had become so estranged from the affairs of his birthplace, but also optimistic that this was the ideal opportunity to redeem himself, not that anyone blamed Spyro to begin with. He had a good excuse.

"We're going to mount an attack against the Gnorcs and wipe them out for good, but there are signs to indicate that they may be planning a counter attack," Titan continued, disdain dripping from every word. "I don't have enough time to give you any formal training, but I know that you can hold your own in combat."

Spyro felt a surge of pride welling up in his chest at this revelation. Receiving that kind of acclaim from such an imposing dragon was nothing to sniff at.

"What I'd like you to do is travel to Cliff Town through the portal," Titan gestured at the glowing gateway behind him. "Then make your way to the peak of the hill – mind the buzzards - you should have a good view over the desert from there. If you spot any Gnorcs up to no good just shoot this flare into the sky and we'll see it and come charging."

Oh.

"…That's it?" quizzed Spyro, feeling the warmth of the praise disappearing into a cold brick of disappointment in his stomach.

"That's it!" Titan replied with a big grin on his face, clearly oblivious to the reaction of the younger dragon. "Even though we would probably steamroll them, it's important to always pick and choose your battles. I was going to send one of my elite soldiers up there but I know that you can manage a few Gnorcs on your own if we can't reach you in time."

Spyro did his best to hide his disappointment and accepted the flare gun from the elder dragon. He was hoping to be a part of the action and kick some Gnorc butt with his track record more than enough to ascertain his clout in the matter, but he was grateful that he was being allowed to participate at all so bit his tongue. Titan offered Spyro a mighty salute which he replied to with a slightly less enthusiastic salute, leaving the amethyst dragon alone with Sparx and the flare gun. He looked down at the device to see his own melancholy reflection in the metal. He mentally slapped himself and tried to get it together. If those baby dragons were already at the point where brawling was an enjoyable pastime then he could one up them with everything he had!

Resolving himself again he purposefully ventured through the portal to Cliff Town and steeled himself. It was going to be a long climb.

* * *

Spyro was bored, _again._

He could only try and find objects in the sparse clouds above him or use the local cacti as target practise using pebbles so many times before he started to lose the will to live. He was currently lying on his back with both arms crossed behind his head, absently gazing at the sky and wondering how long he would need to stare at the sun before he went blind. The feeling of the sand between his scales bordered on soothing, but the scorching heat of the unprotected sun made him almost wish for the biting cold of Cloud Temples. Almost. He didn't mind the intense flame that exuded from exposed lava, in many ways reminding him of the perpetual heat in his own belly, but something about the oppressive dry heatwaves of the desert just exhausted him.

The climb to the peak of Cliff Town had been a lot quicker than the first time he had adventured up the hill, lured by the promise of gemstones seen from across the tar rivers and goaded on by Enzo's cryptic response to his enquiries. He never forgave that dragon for not telling him about the ravenous vultures. What sort of giant chickens are they to be unafraid of dragons anyway?! After the baddies had been driven out a lot of the buildings had been reclaimed and were once again repopulated by the dragons, with most buildings now being used as sleeping quarters for the rapidly diminishing armed forces. The area now operated under a very scrupulous and unwelcoming atmosphere, although Spyro could swear he still smelt the spicy curries brewed by the Fat Ladies on the breeze coming from the remaining cast iron cauldrons. His stomach growled.

Rolling over onto his belly he took another look over the desert, trying to make some sort of effort to adhere to the task given to him by Titan. The landscape was one of the blandest views he had ever been inconvenienced enough to have burned into his retinas, the seemingly endless ocean of pale white sand only interrupted by the occasional sad looking cactus. Spyro wasn't even sure what oasis Titan had been talking about; then again the entirely of Cliff Town was enclosed by a magic barrier that he had never been tall enough or brave enough to climb over, so anything beyond the view of the highest sand dune may as well have not existed to his immature mind. The purple dragon had defended himself against all manner of terrifying creatures but he didn't want to think about what could be hiding over the next hill. Anything that could thrive in such a hostile environment could stay as far away from him as possible.

A sudden breeze kicked up a cloud of dust which promptly found its way inside Spyro's nostrils.

Finding himself in the midst of a sneezing fit he turned away from the direction of the breeze and tried to clear his eyes. His heart yearned for the lush green grass and cascading rivers of the Artisan Homeworld, where the biggest threat only hit those with a pollen allergy, or the occasional homicidal sheep. The Peace Keeper Homeworld seemed so malevolent and uninviting that he was shocked any of the dragons had chosen to remain behind. Even the water was toxic, not that Spyro was the best swimmer anyway. He still remembered the pit of embarrassment that had grown in his stomach after learning from Moneybags that dragons could breathe underwater and that his fear of any large body of liquid had been thoroughly unnecessarily the entire time. The bear had never let him live that one down.

Spyro found himself being dragged out of his moment of reflection by Sparx insistently tugging on his cheek, trying to persuade him to turn his head to the right. He tried to swat the dragonfly away, still striving to recover from his incapacitating sneezing fit, but Sparx just seemed to pull with more force. He relented after clearing the sand from his eyes to the point where he could at least see again and cast his eyes over the nearest dune.

Worming their way across the sand were two Gnorcs dragging a large sack.

Spyro immediately threw himself into the sand beneath his feet and tried to make his silhouette as small as possible, aware that his vibrant purple scales and canary yellow horns would make him an easy target against the cascades of sand. Shuffling forward on his belly he got as close to the edge of the viewpoint as he dared with only the tip of his snout peeking over the cliff side. The Gnorcs seemed to be clothed in very poorly made armour that consisted of little more than knee pads and metal pots on their heads, and were hauling a large woven sack behind them which left a deep indent in it's wake. It appeared as so the Gnorcs were squabbling about something and were completely oblivious to their surroundings or the fact that they were being watched. One of the monsters pulled the front of his trousers forward, allowing an obscene amount of sand to fall out and collect on the ground around his feet. The other slapped him for this and shouted something incomprehensible.

Vigilantly observing the two Gnorcs drag themselves behind a distant sand dune and out of sight, Spyro tensely turned back and grasped the flare gun. Remembering Titan's instructions to fire the gun if he spotted any baddies roaming around he loaded it with a large round and pointed the muzzle at the sky, ready to let loose the stored firework in the chamber.

He hesitated.

Those two Gnorcs barely posed any kind of threat with their improvised armour, not that any Gnorc in a full chainmail set had ever stopped Spyro before, and they were obviously distracted and open to attack on all sides. He knew that they could be taken down with a single charge to the chest despite their mediocre armour, and there was little chance of being overwhelmed when neither Gnorc was much larger than he was, nor did they appear to be armed. Besides, wouldn't firing the flare only alert the suspected hoard and compromise the planned surprise attack? He didn't even know if the Peace Keepers were in a position to intercept the monsters, and there was no chance of the Gnorcs missing the flare or the plume of smoke that would lead them directly to Spyro's position. They might be as dumb as an Earthshaper but they weren't blind.

Sparx seemed to know what was going through Spyro's head and darted in front of his vision, startling the dragon and sending him careening backwards and down the sand dune, coming to a rest in a dizzy heap at the bottom.

"What was that for?!" Spyro protested after his vision stopped spinning and spat out a mouthful of sand. He noticed that he had lost the flare gun at some point during his somersaults but it was probably buried in the sand somewhere and had completely vanished. Sparx buzzed something in his face that was unintelligible but was clearly unimpressed with his friend's inaction.

"What? I was about to shoot!"

Sparx clearly didn't believe him and remained silent with a deadpan expression on his beady face.

"Don't look at me like that," Spyro snorted, matching his expression. "You know we could take those Gnorcs with our wings tied behind our backs. Well, maybe not so much for you."

Sparx let out a drone that could have been mistaken for a grumble and crossed his six arms.

"Sorry," Spyro apologised meekly. "That was uncalled for. What I  _mean_  is that we've come all this way to find out what it means to be a Peace Keeper but all we're doing is sitting around!"

Spyro threw his arms in the air in frustration and turned back to where the Gnorcs had last been spotted.

"I just feel like we're not being useful…"

Sparx could at least sympathise with the dragon in this case. There were many times where he had wondered if Spyro would have been fine on his own, but there were plenty of  _other_  times where the dragon had thrown himself into lava, or blown himself up, or fallen off a cliff, that had reminded Sparx of how clumsy his best friend was. He perched against the spines on the crown of the purple dragon's head and buzzed softly.

"…You're right," Spyro acknowledged after a moment, pulling himself to his feet and shaking the sand off. "We got this."

Taking a running start, the pair charged towards the nearest stone pedestal and scrambled up the grooves of the exposed side. Feeling the exhilaration beginning to flow through his veins, Spyro jumped towards the top of the spire and effortlessly cleared the height of the magic barrier. Feeling the sand parting beneath his feet as he landed on the other side he put his head down and charged in the direction of the Gnorcs as fast as his legs would carry him.

* * *

Titan remembered the day he was accepted into the barracks.

He was a tiny whelp, barely grown into his royal purple wings and horns but with an attitude several times his size and an ego to match. He was younger than any dragon who had ever been accepted into the ranks of the Peace Keepers but he had recently beaten one of his clutch-mates in an arm wrestling match and was riding on the high that came with it. He had a reputation as an abrasive bully, which he swore was just a sign of his growing strength – it didn't matter if he had to roll over his peers in the process to prominence, they only had themselves to blame that they had not put the same effort into their own characters. With freshly shined spines and a good night's sleep he had marched himself over to the encampment and demanded immediate recognition and a position within the ranks to reflect this.

Unsurprisingly he was turned away without a second thought. The elder at the time was seven feet of pure rippling muscle, tattooed across every inch of skin and covered in deep and unsightly scars but with a heart of gold and a love of classical music. Titan had heard that he had an eight pack, that he was ripped. He had recognised that the citrine dragon's prowess matched his name but his arrogance was nothing short of beastly. He had tried to decline the young Titan politely, recommending that he wait until he was a little older before applying again and to include a formal reference from his teachers, but this quickly devolved into a shouting match between the two equally stubborn dragons that had practically traumatised the other soldiers. Titan had stormed off in a huff, his desire to surpass anyone that had come before him only stoked by the rejection.

Overflowing with rage and with no knowledge on how to express it, he had channelled it into his training. He spent longer at the target range, longer in the gym, longer on the running tracks, slaving away each day working himself to exhaustion in the never ending chase for perfection. There were days that he had worked until he made himself ill, with several teachers voicing concerns about his wellbeing that he had shrugged off as signs of jealousy. He completely isolated himself from the other dragons, devoting as many of his waking hours as he could to physical gains and completely spurning any interactions with those who he had come to see as nothing more than competition.

The second time he had applied as a solider he was covered in bruises with one broken wing and the head of a Gnorc under his arm.

Titan had been lucky to escape with his life. Frustrated with the increasingly judgmental behaviour from his peers and verging on the edge of paranoia he had decided that enough was enough and it was time to make his move. He snuck out past the patrols in the middle of the night and climbed the barrier towards the nearest Gnorc camp. After Gnasty had been banished to the Dragon Junkyard and renamed it the 'Gnorc Nexus' the number of his minions had increased dramatically. Rumours were circulating that the Gnorc was using gems to manufacture his army in a vile bastardisation of Beast Maker magic, which meant that killing them was valuable, and Titan was desperate enough to take any opportunity he could to elevate his status. He didn't have the chance to nab any weapons before he left, but he was more than confident in the power of his unarmed fists alone. The purple spines on his tail were a substitute for any weapon in a pinch.

This wasn't a mistake he would make in his career again. The Gnorcs clearly had their thumbs in the Peace Keepers' pie - or Gnasty had turned into a master weapon-smith overnight - because the monsters were decked out in near-impenetrable armour and wielding maces that were eerily reminiscent of the craftsmanship of the Artisans that had supplied their own stock. None the less, while the weapons and armour were of the highest grade they were clumsy and amateurish in their execution and unable to access the powerful magic trapped within the reflective metal. Still, they were able to overpower Titan by sheer force of numbers and while he had managed to subdue them he had taken heavy blows in the scuffle. They had seen him coming over the sand dunes from a mile away so had prepared their defences before he even came within flaming distance. Obscuring his presence in the desert had not even crossed the young dragon's mind, his tunnel vision only allowing him to see the end result of his actions.

The elder had been furious with Titan on his return, and rightly so. He was fortunate that the coral dragon hadn't needed a prosthetic wing, although Titan never flew the same again as a result. This time he had no retorts for the elder as he shrank under the weight of his decisions and subjected himself to the ire of his superior. In his haste to validate himself he had put his own life and potentially the lives of other dragons at risk if he had required rescuing, had defied the orders of those above him, and had violated the curfew and climbed the barrier. The only reason he wasn't exiled to Volcanic Isle was because he had succeeded in returning the stolen weapons and armour, which the elder begrudgingly acknowledged as having some value. Titan had brought the head of his enemy back to use it as leverage to enter the ranks of the Peace Keepers. He was told to keep it as a reminder of his failings. He had it taxidermied and hung above his bed.

After spending a month in recovery Titan found himself with a renewed sense of vigour ensuing his humiliation. His obsession with physical training had already left his body in excellent health, so instead he spent his recovery time learning about military tactics. He memorised attack and defense formations, appropriate methods of engagement, and the most efficient manner of retreat. He poured his energy into making up for what he had neglected. It might have taken his health being compromised for him to come to terms with this, but he was more determined than ever with the odds stacked all the more heavily against him. By the time he was accepted into the ranks he had made up for his prior idiocy and more, and quickly progressed to the point where he took over as leader when the preceding one retired to Dragon Shores. Last he heard of the old bat he was writing terrible haikus in sweet seclusion.

He genuinely saw a lot of his own personality traits and flaws in Spyro, for better or for worse. Watching the young Artisan dragon grow into his own skin had stricken Titan with feelings of remorse surrounding the memories of the unhatched egg, and while he saw the Legend of the Purple Dragon as nothing more than superstitious drivel it was certainly applicable to the dragon pup. Guilt was not a feeling that the Peace Keeper elder enjoyed so he refused to indulge himself in pointless contemplation around how Spyro would have become a different dragon had he been raised as a Peace Keeper.

Seeing Spyro walk through the front door of the barracks with a grin on his face and a large sack of stolen weapons did enough to answer that question.

Titan had assembled a group of his most trusted and bad ass soldiers for this mission, small as it was, with the intentions of returning victorious. He would be lying if he said that he hadn't felt inadequate since the Forgotten Realms had been rediscovered, with fewer and fewer dragons finding it necessary to call on the fortitude of the Peace Keepers. Some days it felt like the peace was simply keeping itself and he was concerned that the armed forces would find themselves falling into obscurity. Even the Homeworld was becoming more barren as dragons were trading a life of valour for that of excess and sloth, laying down their weapons and armour and retiring for a life of indulgence and bliss in the new worlds. He would spit in the face of any dragon who abandoned their post if he could, but instead he craved the chance to prove that the art of war was still relevant even in the most harmonious hour.

So when the squadron had descended upon the oasis with fire in the eyes and on their tongues to find the camp abandoned they had been bewildered. It was clear that they had been correct in their prior assumptions as the greenery was burdened under the weight of disused tents and campfires, but it seemed almost like the location had been struck by a tornado. Gnorcs were not know as the tidiest of creatures but the campsite was near obliterated with tents demolished and burned and supplies upended, even surpassing the disorganised nature of the beasts. To anyone else it would have appeared as though the monsters had scattered in a rush, perhaps after learning that the Peace Keepers were coming for vengeance, but Titan could tell otherwise. The oasis had been the site of a monstrous attack.

Furthermore, none of the reportedly stolen weapons could be found in the rubble. Not even the weakest of ammunition or bluntest of daggers remained, although the obscene carvings on the trucks of the cacti spoke otherwise. Suddenly hit with a sense of deep dread he had ordered the fastest flier to check on Spyro in Cliff Town, concern hammering the inside of his skull at the thought that the young dragon could have been caught up in whatever had torn through the encampment, but the scout had reported that the lookout was unoccupied. Titan did not like feeling out of control of a situation, but the mere possibility that the purple dragon had been captured or  _worse_  almost sent him in to a frenzy. Had his titillation at converting Spyro into what he truly believed could be one of the best soldiers in his ranks clouded his judgement? Had it cost him his  _life?!_

He had hastily retreated back to the safety of the barracks to regroup and form a plan. None of the other dragons had reported Spyro returning to the Homeworld, causing the pit in his stomach to expand into a boulder. The scout who had ventured to Cliff Town  _did_  report a lengthy trail in the sand leading down the side of the outlook, which perhaps indicated that Spyro had fallen off at some point. Titan didn't know if that was going to be useful in any capacity, but he would take what he could get. He was about to amass a search party when the young dragon had thrown open the doors to the barracks and carelessly dropped a brown fabric sack on the floor, unceremoniously spilling a large amount of steel weaponry on the ground in front of the silent spectators. He was bruised and clearly out of breath, but didn't appear to be harmed which was likely in part due to his protection from his dragonfly.

Titan didn't know if he should hug him or smack him.

The coral dragon swallowed heavily, only now noticing how dry his mouth was, as Spyro wildly regaled them with the story of how he spotted the two Gnorcs in the desert and assaulted them from behind with karate kicks. He gestured excitedly while explaining how he tracked them back to the campsite and took on a small army of Gnorcs, although he maybe didn't believe the part where Sparx shot lasers from his eyes and Spyro used telekinesis to swing a cactus around like a baseball bat. He reported that the only reason why he hadn't made it back sooner was because he had stopped to sign autographs after being accosted by a gaggle of hatchling dragons, which he could almost believe as being plausible. Spyro... certainly had an active imagination. Titan had to stop the story before he suffered an aneurysm.

"Why didn't you use the flare gun I gave you?" he probed after taking a deep breath. Spyro hesitated before responding.

"I was going to but I... sort of... lost it in the sand."

Titan pinched the bridge of his nose, noting that Sparx had firmly crossed his arms in displeasure at this statement. On one hand he was relived to find that Spyro had come back in one piece and that the elder wouldn't have to face the wrath of the other leaders. On the other hand he was desperately trying to fight the feeling that he had been humiliated by the younger dragon, who had essentially obliterated the forces that the others had been hesitating to face unaided. He knew that it was inappropriate to blame his own failings on anyone else, especially in light of his prior experience with disobeying direct orders, but he was already struggling to keep the Peace Keepers relevant and he didn't feel like this helped. How could he justify their ongoing existence when a prepubescent dragon sprog had done what he couldn't.

This was a line of thought that Titan did not want to entertain. Spyro likely didn't realise the consequences of his actions and believed that he was helping, after all that was what he had arrived to do from the beginning. Looking back down at the eagerly attentive dragon pup he saw the innocence in his eyes and reminded himself that Spyro was still a child. He considered what he would have done in the same position and tried to choose his words carefully, not something that any Peace Keeper would ever admit to being good at.

"Spyro," he stated, not allowing any expression to permeate his words. "You abandoned your post, didn't follow my orders and put yourself and your dragonfly in danger."

Spyro flinched at this, feeling like he wanted to earth to swallow him whole.

"I'm glad that you came back unhurt, but why didn't you  _listen_ to me?"

He struggled not to reveal his frustration. Spyro was a child still, but this was exactly why he didn't mesh well with Artisans. They were far too unreliable and shortsighted except when it came to their craft, and he was so invested in helping the purple dragon grow out of these characteristics that he grappled with his own feeling of inadequacy that had put them in this situation in the first place.

"I'm sorry if I sound a little harsh," he explained, feeling guilty once again for Spyro's humble expression. "But we're Peace Keepers, not War Mongers. I'm glad that you're OK but we have rules for a reason and I can't ignore that you didn't follow what I asked of you."

Spyro had already noted that he had been apologising more than usual lately, but he found himself unable to justify his actions. He could reel off a long list of reasons to explain why he had acted the way he did, but being faced with the interrogation from the taller dragon had forced all excuses from his mind.

"I'm sorry", he mumbled, avoiding all eye contact. "I felt like I wasn't helping you guys by sitting and doing nothing. I know you told me that you wanted me to stay put, but this isn't what a thought being a Peace Keeper was about..."

Titan sighed heavily.

"I must apologise as well," he affirmed, Spyro looking up suddenly in shock. "I should have been more thorough in my briefing. When it comes to participating in any form of conflict every dragon has an important role to play, regardless of whether you're on the front line or not. We all must depend on each other to fulfill what is asked of us, otherwise we wouldn't be able to coordinate our movements effectively."

Spyro was unsure how to react to one of the leaders asking for forgiveness from him, but he knew Titan was correct. He had engaged in battle on his own in almost every situation he had found himself in on his quests, barring Sparx who rarely left his side, so had never needed to consider the involvement of anyone else when deriving a strategy. Titan patted the purple dragon on the shoulder, looking to diffuse the tense situation.

"I can't offer you a permanent position among the Peace Keepers because of your actions, but I'm still impressed that you took all those Gnorcs out on your own and returned the stolen weapons," he admitted with a warm smile. "If you ever want to give this job a real shot then you're always welcome back. Just don't do that again."

Spyro returned the smile and nodded, upset that his decision didn't go over as he had planned it to but grateful that the elder dragon would not be holding it against him. He stood on his hind legs and gave a firm salute.

"Yes sir!"

Titan allowed a bellowing laugh to escape his lungs before returning the gesture.

"Get out of here kid, and send Nestor my regards."

Titan heavily dropped into a seat as the purple dragon departed, suddenly finding himself exhausted beyond reason. Resting his head in his hands he tried to steel his nerves, still shaken at the possibility that he might have needed to explain to the other elders that Spyro had been killed under his watch. It was mandatory for a Peace Keeper to know when to follow orders and when to use their own intuition, but he still adamantly believed that Spyro would come to understand this in time. He pondered if it was possible for a dragon to be a warrior without  _also_  being a Peace Keeper, but this wasn't something that Titan was going to worry himself with.

When he later spotted some of the hatchlings proudly displaying where Spyro had signed their wings he simply shook his head and decided to leave well enough alone.


	4. Chapter 4

(You know that one area in Misty Bog that everyone hates, some call it 'Guantanamo Bay'? Yeah. You're welcome.)

* * *

Bruno considered Spyro to be bad luck.

He would swear to anyone who dared to ask that he did not perceive himself as one of the more unreasonably superstitious Beast Makers. The Homeworld had an unfortunate reputation for attributing even the most minor of inconveniences to what were otherwise completely unrelated events – flaming the indigenous glowing mushrooms would cause snakes to manifest physically in your house. Stepping on a crack while climbing the steps of the temple would break your elder's back. Some days it was a wonder than any dragon ever left their house for fear of the universe smiting them for an action that they hadn't even thought twice about.

Bruno was not unaware that many of the superstitions had no basis in the physical or even magic world and were nothing more than coincidences, but it was much easier to adhere to them rather than test them and risk the consequences. He was a dragon with a sensible head on his shoulders, but going out of his way to actively encourage the wrath of the universe to strike him down where he stood was not particularly high on his agenda. He preferred to sleep well at night knowing that he had not partaken in any action that could come back to bite him in the future, and he certainly wasn't going to be the one to break the elder's back.

This ideology bled into the beasts and creatures that the Beast Makers had earned their names from. While the Magic Crafters' general approach was to keep magic and science as far apart as possible to retain the purity of each art, the Beast Makers believed that the two were essentially one and the same, just expressed in different forms. If Bruno had a gem for every dragon that told him he was 'violating the sanctity of magic' or 'playing god' he could retire to the Artisan Homeworld tomorrow. The day that any dragon stopped living off the genetically modified crops and meat that the Beast Makers had been pivotal in creating or abstained from using their harnessed electricity to light their houses was the day that he would consider their opinion on the matter.

Bruno never once held this sort of belief against Spyro or his personality. The purple dragon was ultimately still a child, although he believed himself to be much more mature than he truly was, so could not be held responsible for the dark clouds that seemed to follow him wherever he went. But Spyro was the only dragon the elder had ever known who couldn't take two steps without being dragged by his tail into some sort of conflict and this wasn't something he could bring himself to ignore. He wasn't certain if the universe was out to get the young dragon, or if it was actually on his side in a macabre way, but he did _not_ want whatever attribute that made the dragon so important to rub off on him. He was very much content with spending his time fishing and meditating in peace, thank you.

When Spyro had appeared out of thin air with a parchment from Nestor and an interest in the Beast Maker arts, Bruno couldn't help but wonder if this was going to be a bad idea.

He had not chosen to move out of the Dragon Realms permanently, unable to tear his heart away from the swamp that he had known his whole life, but had still done his fair share of travelling across the newly opened worlds. Spyro had found him squatting on the edge of a riverbed in Spooky Swamp indulging in his usual pastime – fishing. Ironically, Bruno intensely disliked something about this particular swamp but he couldn't put his claw on what it was. It was certainly less _dangerous_ than his home with no Attack Frogs or homicidal shrubs to be found, but the perpetual rain was depressing and he found that the locals reminded him too much of the Dream Weavers with their inability to speak in anything other than forced haikus, and he couldn't _stand_ the Dream Weavers. Or bad poetry.

Spyro clearly didn't seem to enjoy the swamp either, but this was largely due to his nature as an Artisan. He sheltered his dragonfly from the downpour under one leathery wing and visibly flinched every time a large droplet of water managed to land directly between his eyes. Still, his demeanour was unchanged from what the elder had come to expect of him, gazing up at the taller dragon expectantly and clutching the parchment in his hands.

Bruno did not regret his decision to reject the unhatched egg when he had been approached by Cosmos. The Beast Makers accepted very few eggs to begin with, even when the dragon inside was confirmed to belong to their kin, because the swamp was just too harsh a location to raise defenceless children in. It required a certain strength of spirit to persist in an environment that was actively trying to kill you at every turn. He had been tempted to honour the proposition, realising that the dragon within the egg was technically an outcast which was something the Beast Makers had come to pride themselves on, however this changed as soon as Cosmos mentioned the Legend of the Purple Dragon.

There was a sizable difference between groundless superstition and a _prophecy_. For all Bruno disliked the Dream Weavers with a passion usually only reserved for the Gnorcs they were by no means incompetent, despite their appearances, so when they had predicted that a dragon with purple scales would be born with a magic signature that had no alignment to any Realm he hadn't doubted them for a moment. The potential of a dragon fitting that description would be feasibly limitless, and Bruno couldn't help but feel apprehensive as to what the existence of such a creature would mean for the rest of dragon-kind.

He read the parchment given to him from Nestor and snorted.

"Well, this is a surprise," he pondered sullenly, turning his attention back to the fishing line. "Nestor is normally very overprotective of his hatchlings."

"I've gathered," Spyro responded, this statement reflecting what the other elders had told him. "But I haven't heard anything about what you guys get up to so I thought it would make a change from what I'm used to back home."

Bruno contemplated this for a moment, before pulling his line from the water of the swamp. Scowling to find that the bait had been completely devoured by the resident piranhas due to the interruption, he firmly hooked another thick slab of raw meat onto the end of the line and lowered it back into the unseen depths of the dark water.

"That's completely intentional, Spyro," he noted, feeling the slight tugging at the end of his line but biding his time. "Our teachings have come from generations of effort, passed down between dragons since our ancestors first began to refer to themselves as 'Beast Makers'. Only those who share our blood are able to share our learning."

Spyro was starting to get sick of being told that he didn't have the right kind of 'blood'.

"Is that a no then?"

Bruno cast his eyes towards the young dragon, noticing the downtrodden expression on his face. He felt a little guilty that he was being so cold towards the dragon pup; he _had_ dragged himself all this way in the miserable weather so it was clear he was serious. He tugged at the fishing line to expose the meat bait which was now covered in dozens of ravenous piranhas still attempting to devour the bait even after being pulled from the water. He unceremoniously shook the fishing rod which knocked the hungry piranhas off the meat slab and into a large bucket resting nearby. Spyro took a couple of steps away from the now violently shaking bucket.

"Not necessarily," he replied, standing and beginning to pack up his equipment. "I can't teach you any of our magic, but there might still be something that you could help with."

Spyro perked up at this, still filled with trepidation after the last task he had 'helped' with but was just happy that he wasn't being rejected outright before he had a chance to prove himself.

"Tell you what," Bruno said after a brief pause. "Meet me back home in Misty Bog. I've been working on something that I haven't made much progress on in a while, but I think you would be perfect."

Bruno felt his heart warm a little seeing the purple dragon's expression brighten into a wide smile. He began to tap his feet in excitement, the rain no longer dampening his mood at the prospect of training with the elder dragon, even though he wasn't totally sure what he was going to be helping with. He nodded dramatically and turned and charged off, looking to get through the portal and into dry weather as soon as he could.

Bruno had to come to terms with the fact that most dragons saw the Beast Makers as backwards savages, overly secretive and unapproachable – it was something he had almost come to relish. Seeing the dragon pup so open to expanding his horizons was not something he had witnessed in his dragon brethren for a long time, and it filled Bruno with a sense of tentative optimism. He wondered if it was possible for Spyro's luck to change.

Picking up the bucket of piranhas, he hauled the fishing rod over his back and began the long trek back to his home swamp.

* * *

Spyro _really_ disliked swamps.

He honestly did not understand why any dragon, or any other creature for that matter, would voluntarily spend the majority of their lives in such gloomy surroundings. He couldn't stand the feeling of the mud squelching between his toes, too slippery to grip for a decent charge, and the lack of sunlight penetrating through the dense fog cast a melancholy shadow over the dank green forestry. It was no wonder that most of the dragon had resigned themselves to living in haphazard wooden huts nailed to the highest tree tops – anything standing in one place for too long would find themselves neck-deep in moss and sludge before they could even call for help.

Spyro shuddered – he had found himself in that situation one too many times.

Still, he could stomach the rancid smell of the peat bogs if it meant that he was able to continue his quest for self-realisation. He would admit that the Beast Makers were probably the dragons he resonated with the least, but he would be a fool to pass up such an opportunity as this. The Beast Makers were notoriously secretive, even by dragon standards, so the fact that Bruno was willing to open up about their practises to an outsider at all was a feat in itself. Spyro couldn't help but feel a sense of pride that he was the one chosen to receive such enigmatic information but tried not to let it get to his head. He was not succeeding.

Misty Bog was the site of one his worst nightmares during his many quests, and he had been to a _lot_ of miserable realms in his time. This wasn't even the only realm with homicidal plants – Fractures Hills immediately came to mind – but something about the impenetrable grey peasouper suffocating the area and the ruins of abandoned stone skyscrapers set him on edge. This was an emotion he shared with Sparx, who had needed to cover for Spyro's hits multiple times in this realm and was twitching with anxiety, constantly scouring the area for threats.

By comparison Bruno felt right at home. The overly saccharine and bright environments of the rest of the Dragon Realms just gave him a headache; at least the swamp was honest in how dangerous it was, whereas a lot of the other realms feigned a sense of safety with their vibrant colours and carefree atmosphere. He had seen what resided in the High Caves, or what lay within the lava pits of Jacques. Sure, the Beast Makers might have had more than their fair share of involvement when it came to creating these monsters, accidentally or otherwise, but the idea that the Beast Maker Homeworld was somehow more threatening than any other Realm was simply laughable.

Seeing Spyro persevere knowing that he was very much out of his element gave him faith that he was making the right decision by including him.

"Thanks for getting here so quickly, Spyro," Bruno noted, placing his hands on his hips and smiling brightly. "I've been putting this off for far too long already."

Spyro considered that the snails pace at which the dragon elder had strolled back to the Beast Maker Homeworld might be a trend with him.

"No problem," Spyro said nonchalantly, resisting the urge to sit on his back legs in case he disappeared into a mud pile. "So, what are we doing?"

" _We?!_ " Bruno laughed incredulously. "I'm not doing anything today! It's all on you!"

Spyro was wondering if he was getting in over his head.

"You remember the Attack Frogs, right?" Bruno asked. Spyro nodded in trepidation. "Well we've had enough of them running rampant in our swamp! Even after you chased all the Gnorcs out we haven't been able to get within five feet of the frogs without being whipped by them, and I don't think I need to tell you how much their tongues hurt."

Spyro swallowed deeply. He didn't need reminding.

"So here's where you come in," Bruno stated, oblivious to the panicked expression on the younger dragon's face. He handed Spyro a scratched metal crate with a row of black button on one side and an unlit screen on the top. "You remember the building where you rescued Damon? We've found the Attack Frogs using it as a lair at night. We wanted to reclaim that building but I think I hate the frogs more."

Spyro inspected the device, turning it carefully in his hands to prevent damage to delicate interior. It seemed to have an opening for a battery pack, meaning it ran off electricity, but the buttons and screen were completely foreign to him. The Beast Makers were known for relying heavily on technology for daily living which was something that had not jumped the cultural divide to the other dragons yet.

"It should be dark enough now for you to sneak into the building undetected, plant this bomb, and blow the place sky high!" Bruno bellowed, getting more enthusiastic by the second. "That bomb should make a mushroom cloud large enough to be seen from the Dream Weavers Homeworld! Then we can be rid of the frog menace once and for all!"

"W-We're going to explode them?" Spyro questioned, not yet sharing the elder dragon's zest. "Isn't this maybe a little excessive?"

"Of _course_ it is!" Bruno replied. "But it's also going to be very cathartic. Besides, frogs taste great lightly toasted. Just find somewhere safe to plant it and press the first button to turn it on, then the second to connect it to the remote. Then come back and we can enjoy the show!"

Spyro shook his head, unable to hide his smile. He was concerned about the safety of the mission but the taller dragon's enthusiasm was infection. He left Bruno to finish setting up the equipment and tucked Sparx under one wing to hide his glow from any prying eyes. He had never found himself using stealth on any of his adventures, preferring to charge into trouble horns first, but he really didn't fancy having to face off against a horde of drowsy Attack Frogs if he could help it.

This was the one time he found himself thankful for the soft ground of the mire, which was helping to disguise the sound of his claws clicking against the ground. He kept his body as low as he dared without losing his balance on his hind legs and darted towards his target, bomb in hand. The killer trees all seemed to be 'sleeping', if a tree could even sleep, snoring loudly through their noses as their mouths were buried underground. Spyro was grateful that Bruno had planned this escapade during the dark of night – the lack of sun and resulting lack of photosynthesis must be keeping the shrubs inactive enough for him to move past unobstructed.

The duo wordlessly made their way over to the imposing structure and glided across the river of poisonous water, entering through the pitch black mouth of the building. In the dark of night it almost seemed like the area was opening up to swallow the two whole. Now sheltered from the gaze of the ravenous trees, Sparx wriggled out from under Spyro's wing and flew on ahead, using his golden light to illuminate the area. Spyro briefly worried that this would alert any frogs hidden in the shadows, but it was better than tripping blindly into the jaws of some enormous creature.

Climbing the steps as silently as he could manage, Spyro leaned against the furthest wall and tried to peer around the corner using his peripheral vision. Sparx might have been illuminating the way, but that didn't mean he was going to plough ahead as he normally would; he didn't want to think about the fact that any frog would find a stray dragonfly to be a delectable treat. Only the tip of his snout was visible beyond the wall that he had squashed himself again as he tried to sneak a look at the contents of the main room.

The entire building was overflowing with sleeping frogs.

Spyro held in a muffled gasp and pulled himself deeper into the opaque shadow of the wall. None of the frogs seemed to have stirred from their slumber, even with Sparx's radiance casting a sunny yellow glow over the exposed stone and stained wood panelling. Spyro swallowed heavily, finding his mouth suddenly very dry.

He was confident in his abilities, some would even say overconfident, but he didn't have fond memories of his last encounter with the Attack Frogs. He had been lured into a false sense of security by their bright pastel blue skin and rainbow tongues, but had been viciously accosted en masse when he had approached to see if they were friendly. Their appearance was so out of place compared to the local fauna that Spyro hadn't believed them to be a threat; this wasn't an assumption he'd found himself making again.

Steeling his nerves and drawing a deep, shaking breath he pushed his two hind feet into the ground and began to sneak forward. Trying to keep his toes curled up to his claws wouldn't scrape against the floor he weaved between the incapacitated amphibians, tail up and wings flat against his back. He hesitated at climbing over two frogs sleeping on top of each other and protecting a large pile of translucent eggs in a glue-like fluid, feeling a slight pang of remorse sweep over him at the sight of the family, but remembered how he was scolded for not following orders before and continued to press onwards.

Upon reaching the smooth stone surface of the stairs in the back of the room he let out a breath that he didn't realise he was holding and scrambled up the side as fast as he could manage. Checking to make sure he wasn't about to be attacked from the rear, he gently placed the bomb on the ground and pressed the first button as instructed. He jolted in surprise as the screen on the top of the box lit up to revel the words 'Out Of Range', but none of the frogs reacted to this in any way. Feeling his heart pounding in his chest he tried to calm his shaking legs and pressed the second button.

The bomb let out a series of loud staccato beeps as it began to search for the remote.

Spyro didn't even check to see if this had disturbed any of the Attack Frogs, he simply turned and ran. Thankful that the building had a back entrance he charged up the side slope of the building and opened his wings to fall into a glide towards solid ground. Relieved to see Sparx following him he angled his dive towards Bruno's location.

Seems he had drawn a bit of a crowd.

* * *

Bruno remembered the first beast he had made.

He was a slightly… oddly shaped dragon pup, short and wide with small wings and massively oversized horns. The Beast Makers were certainly not known to be the leanest of dragons – the Magic Crafters claimed this trophy by a long shot – but the majority of his peers already had the hint of muscles forming under their scales as they grew in strength. Bruno never managed to develop this, his body only seeming to grow wider instead of taller, until he was a full head shorter than his clutch-mates.

He could never recall being bullied specifically, but he had found himself struggling with his confidence and becoming more introverted as time went on despite the patience of his teachers. The Beast Makers took on very few eggs each twelve years so he had no other dragons his age to hide behind. All of his flaws were out in the open for inspection and assessment, and he quickly discovered that he was his own worst critic, whether this was regarding his physique or not. It was something he would self-conscious about for the rest of his life.

He had initially thrown himself into physical training in an attempt to change himself, spurning the magic behind Beast Maker arts and focusing almost entirely on the Homeworld's other speciality – electricity. He would freely admit that he loathed the work; it was very physically taxing setting up machinery and pylons and running maintenance work on the massive converters and he quickly fell behind. This drew the ire of the leader, a menacing dragon with black scales and piercing eyes. He swore that every single stereotype about Beast Makers were based off that one dragon.

The elder had not judged Bruno on his stature, nor had he judged him on his timid nature. He had judged him on his lack of performance. Bruno may have been in denial, but the elder could tell that he was trying to force a square peg into a round hole, so to speak, and was trying to learn a profession that he ultimately had no talent in. The young dragon had no say in the matter, and was moved to a class specialising in magic under duress. He had sulked about it, but didn't dare question the decision. He had heard that the elder could eat dragon pups like him for breakfast.

Bruno had reluctantly scraped by in his lessons, unwilling to put too much effort in to a subject that he had decided he wasn't interested in, but similarly unwilling to invoke the wrath of the elder. He barely found himself passing any classes or participating in an extra curricular work, but he did the bare minimum so that he stayed out of trouble. He could tell that his teachers were disappointed in him, but he didn't care. He lacked the passion and motivation necessary to excel and had resigned himself to a low paying job, perhaps in one of the other Dragon Realms.

He wasn't sure when this mentality had changed, but he was almost certain it was around the time of the first assignment.

The task had been simple – create a beast. This was at the very core of the Beast Maker's way of life, so it was only a matter of time before he found himself having to participate in it. His clutch-mated had been excited at the prospect of the assignment - he could hear that some were planning to create hybrid beasts, or new beasts entirely - he just want it to be over as quickly as he could force it. Bruno began to consider what beast would be the easiest to manufacture, after all the assignment had been vague enough that he could find some sort of way to slack his way through. He didn't need to make a beast that was flashy, or useful, or healthy…

Bruno settled on a sheep. Heaven knows the Artisans had enough of them and wouldn't miss it, and the Beast Makers had been altering the animals for years in order to make them more docile and delicious. Bruno would attest to this last point – barbequed lamb was truly scrumptious and a far cry from the tough and tasteless meat of the local beasts. All he wanted was to make it a little smarter, sick to death of watching it walk into walls and stare at him with glazed over eyes. He swore the creature bared an uncanny resemblance to his teacher, not that he had the gusto to say that to his face.

His spell had definitely worked, but...

Well, the last Bruno had heard the sheep was still terrorising the Artisan Homeworld dressed as a scarecrow.

The complaints from his teachers barely registered with Bruno due to his shock. He was baffled at the fact that he had put so little energy and effort into the spell but had still achieved such dramatic results. If he had put a little more force behind his magic the sheep could have even learn to read or speak, although considering it had been intelligent enough to immediately escape this perhaps wasn't a good idea. He ultimately failed his class, the first time he had done so since the beginning, seeing as he didn't have anything to show for his efforts but Bruno didn't pay any attention to this set back.

Having finally found his forte he began throwing himself into his learning, absorbing as much knowledge about Beast Maker magic as his skull could fit, spending countless sleepless nights with his head in a scroll or two. Not all of his creations had come out... _alive_... but he quickly rose from the bottom of his class to the cream of the crop, astonishing his teachers who had no idea what miraculous event could have taken place for Bruno to morph into their star pupil. The elder dragon did not speak of this again, but Bruno could swear he saw a twinkle in the old dragon's eye whenever he was brought up in conversation.

In a way, Bruno saw a lot of himself in Spyro, as difficult as it was to admit that he sympathised with a dragon that did not share his blood. He knew what it was like to feel like you were being forced into a role that you didn't want to occupy because someone else had decided you were good at it, but he _also_ knew how important it was to trust the intuition of those with more experience. If Spyro truly was the dragon described in the legends then he had the potential to learn any magic he put his mind to, but that didn't mean that he _should_. Beast Maker magic in particular could have horrific results if used incorrectly, producing creations unable to walk to even feed themselves. Bruno tried not to think too much about that.

Speaking of the purple dragon, he could spot the yellow glow of his dragonfly like a beacon against the pitch black sky.

He felt a blanket of relief wash over him knowing that the dragon pup would be returning unscathed. Those frogs were no laughing matter even for a fully grown dragon, so the fact that Spyro would happily stand his ground against the hell beasts was impressive on its own. Bruno had collected some of the remaining Beast Makers to watch the fireworks - he didn't know a single dragon that hadn't been slighted by the amphibians before and all were itching for a glimpse of revenge, no matter how small or fleeting.

"Nice work, Spyro," Bruno bellowed, greeting the returning dragon with open arms. "The remote finally connected to the bomb a couple minutes ago so we're pretty much all set."

"...What's with the crowd?" Spyro queried, noticing the large gaggle of dragons looking very out of place in the downtrodden swamp, most milling around excitedly. Bubba was serving hotdogs from a stand that he had pulled from... somewhere.

"They're here to watch the fireworks!" Bruno replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I just need to set up these lawn chairs so we can relax and watch the show."

Sure enough, Bruno was accompanied by a large stack of colourful striped fabric chairs that he unceremoniously opened and stuck into the mud to keep them in one place. Spyro wasn't sure he wanted to know where the Beast Makers kept pulling all these props from.

"Uh... Bruno?" he asked tentatively. "I wanted to ask if you knew where these Attack Frogs even came from? They don't exactly fit in with the swamp all that much."

Bruno let out a barking laugh before sinking into a blue and red deckchair and getting comfortable.

"They were actually created by us Beast Makers years before you were been hatched," he remembered fondly. "We were trying to use them to guard the borders of the village, but after the Gnorcs took over and rerouted all the electricity away from their electrified cages they broke out and we've never managed to round them back up."

Bruno remembered discovering this after Spyro had feed him from his crystal prison all those months ago. He had no recollection of any outside events while he was in statis, so waking to find that the amphibians had all but taken over _his_ swamp had almost given his aging heart a jolt. The Beast Makers weren't afraid to create dangerous beasts in their endless pursuit of science, but he knew they should've used something _other_ than electricity to keep them put. Bubba handed him a slightly charred hotdog, just how he liked it, before promptly swallowing it whole. He noticed Spyro's expression become conflicted and change to a forlorn frown, an expression which didn't suit the young dragon well.

"Something wrong?"

Spyro huffed and unconsciously rubbed the canary yellow spines on his nape.

"I feel like maybe this wasn't the right thing to do," he replied despondently. "I don't feel right trying to get revenge against the frogs now if us dragons bred them to be so dangerous. It doesn't seem like it's their fault. And some of them had even laid eggs - couldn't we just collect the eggs and maybe try and rehabilitate them or something?"

Bruno sighed deeply.

"Spyro," he said. "When you were running around on your escapades in Avalar and the Forgotten Realms, did you stop to think if any of the monsters you were fighting deserved to be spared just because they were _trained_ to attack you and weren't doing it of their own volition?"

Spyro thought about this for a moment but did not respond.

"The reason I say this," Bruno stated, accepting another hotdog but refraining from eating it, "is because it's not right for us to try and decide who is and isn't worthy of living just because we're dragons. It's important to be consistent, and if you or any other individual out there wouldn't think twice about doing what was necessary to protect themselves or their kin, then you owe everything else the same consideration. Besides, if they've started to lay eggs then it's even more important that we take action before it gets out of hand!"

Bruno downed the second hotdog before sitting back up in his chair and clapping once, getting the attention of all the attending dragons and disturbing some of the resting trees.

**"Is everyone ready for the show?!"**

The air was filled with raucous cheering from the crowd, almost deafening Spyro and Sparx and jolting a lot of the trees from their slumber. Thankfully they were too disoriented to pose any imminent threat. Sparx reflexively darted behind one of Spyro's horns in an attempt to protect himself from the impending explosion and squeezed his beady eyes shut. Without further ado Bruno pressed the button on the remote and waited for the explosion.

They were not disappointed.

An enormous fireball quickly engulfed the skyline throwing beautiful shades of yellow, orange and red across the surrounding grasslands. A shockwave pounded at the poisonous water sending waves shooting into the air and crashing down with force, dragging rocks and chunks of mud into the depths as they retreated. Any trees too close to the flame were almost immediately disintegrated, and any lucky enough to survive the explosion came out flaming or with all their leaves knocked off. Spyro had never seen the shrubs move so fast even when trying to hunt down their latest victim as they scattered in mass panic. Blinking rapidly to clear the bright spots from his vision he looked to find that the place where the wooden structure once stood was now occupied by an enormous mushroom cloud that reached like an outstretched claw trying to tear at the heavens.

A moment of silence fell across the crowd for only a second as the onlookers stood in awe of the spectacle, the light of the fire reflecting off their multi-coloured scales and casting a rainbow on the grass in front of them. As the dust began to settle the dragons started to whoop and holler again, almost drowning out the ringing in Spyro's ears. He shook his head, trying to ignore the sudden nausea at the movement, somehow not filled with the same vigour as the other dragons. He realised that their cheering was caused by an apparent rain of frog meat falling from the sky, some burnt beyond recognition and some looking lightly toasted and almost fresh.

Spyro wasn't sure if the feeling of sickness was from vertigo or from the realisation that he was the cause of this.

"I don't think this kind of moral dilemma is really for me," he stated blankly, unable to tear his gaze away from the slowly dissipating smoke cloud.

"That's fair," Bruno replied, similarly. "Our role isn't easy, but then again neither are the roles of any of the other Realms."

A large chunk of frog fell from the sky and landed square in the middle of his belly, which he delightedly grasped and bit a chunk out of.

"You know, Spyro," he said with his mouth full. "You're made of pretty tough stuff for an Artisan to stand up to those frogs. I know I said I couldn't teach you any of our magic, but you'd be excellent doing some of the more hands on stuff instead of wasting your life painting. If you change your mind just give me a holler."

Spyro nodded meekly and left with his head lowered in respect for the creatures that had just lost their lives. Bruno wasn't sure if he was maybe too young to grasp the finer points of such a moral quandary, but this was something he could see the dragon accepting as he aged. He knew himself how difficult such a decision was and wasn't immune to the feeling of blame that came with it, but he meant what he had said. Spyro had defied all expectations that the elder had of him and had proven his worth not as an Artisan, but simply as a dragon. Bruno wondered if the secretive ideology of the Beast Makers was the best idea moving into the future; maybe they would benefit from some outside help once in a while.

Swallowing the lump of frog meat he watched the other dragons wade into the mud and scoop up slabs of meat with their hands as the smoke from the fire continued to spread across the sky.

Maybe Spyro wasn't such bad luck after all.


	5. Chapter 5

(Hey, just because Spyro has had some terrible games in his time doesn't mean they aren't canon! lol!)

* * *

Lateef had **known** Spyro would be coming for a lot longer than he knew himself.

Irrespective of the fact that the Dream Weavers were possibly the most finicky dragons in the six Realms when it came to accepting eggs, Lateef treasured children. Adult dragons habitually demonstrated a remarkable absence of empathy and intuition, falling into the trap of closed-minded thinking as they aged. Children didn't suffer from this; many dragons would describe the Dream Weavers as eccentric or possibly even 'loony' if they felt like being offensive, but children saw them as playful, whimsical, eclectic. They had an appreciation for the light-hearted and effervescent atmosphere of the Homeworld, which was typically dismissed as incoherent and irresponsible by their older counterparts.

Yes, he **knew** it was only a matter of time before the purple dragon would embark to the floating Realm with questions he wasn't sure if he could answer. Even if the Legend did not refer to Spyro _specifically_ , his ambitious and non-partisan nature would make him a willing and welcome student, and Lateef could tell he would benefit greatly from a guiding hand, regardless of any prophecies bearing his nomenclature. Spyro may not know it yet, but his destiny was drawing him to the dream-like Realm, leading the dragon pup towards the knowledge that would ultimately guide him headlong into his fate.

Oh, and the other Realms could help too, he supposed.

Unsurprisingly, not a single Dream Weaver had voluntarily relocated out of their Homeworld; barely any had left the Dragon Realms at all, even after the portals to Avalar and the Forgotten Realms had been opened. None of the other worlds had appealed to them – they were too sensible, or too dangerous, or too _boring._ Besides, the dragons had already fabricated a Realm that gratified their every need, why would they want to leave when they could be comfortable where they were? The only time any dragon had ventured outside the iridescent borders of the Homeworld was to exchange their potions for gems. Even the most stoic Dream Weaver still needed a hoard to sleep on.

Ah, but he was getting off track again. The sapphire dragon was already prepared for Spyro's arrival, having dreamt that he would manifest at the entrance to the highest peak of the tallest tower in Lofty Castle before Spyro had doubtless even thought of the idea himself. He was looking for assistance, wide eyed and bushy tailed as always and parchment in hand, accompanied by his ever present dragonfly.

Lateef smiled knowingly at the contents of the parchment.

It was a common misconception that the dragons alleged to be the most amicable by any Dream Weaver were the Magic Crafters, being thus that their mastery over all things magic was a trait shared by the two Homeworlds, but this could not be further from the truth. The Magic Crafters' talents were weighed down by their obsessive focus on detail and rules, afraid or unwilling to expand past their 'Sigils' and really reinvent their magic. No, the dragons that Lateef held closest to his heart were the Artisans – artistic and creative in their pursuits.

The royal blue dragon's decision to refuse the unhatched egg was fully intentional, but was not done senselessly. As swiftly as Cosmos had approached him, barely hiding his distain towards the other elder, and revealed that the egg held a magic signature that did not match any of the Dragon Realms, Lateef knew it was time. The Legend of the Purple Dragon had been misinterpreted and warped over the decades as each new generation of dragon began the fruitless search for the creature, but the true meaning of the prophecy remained with the dragons who had written it. The child could not be raised as a Dream Weaver. If the legend was correct, it did not matter which other Realm raised it anyway.

Besides, the Magic Crafters had not even considered the fact that there were more than five Dragon Realms! The sixth Realm had not been actively inhabited by dragon-kind for millennia, but it would be nought but imbecilic to disregard its existence. Not that he would ever say that to Cosmos' face – he was perfectly content having all four limbs still attached, thank you.

"I didn't expect this all to take place so soon," Lateef mumbled to himself, lost in thought. "And coming from _Nestor_ of all dragons…"

"Huh?" Spyro queried, head cocked to one side. Lateef shook himself out of his reverie and redirected his attention towards the waiting purple dragon.

"Sorry Spyro, my mind often wanders in its old age," he explained, folding the parchment and setting it to one side. "You're looking to learn the art of Dream Weaving I assume?"

"That's right!" the amethyst dragon replied, wings extended in confidence. His lack of success with the other elders might have set him back a little but he was still determined to follow through. Nestor would kick his butt if he chickened out half way through, that is if Spyro didn't kick his _own_ butt for being a wuss. Lateef felt a smile cross his face at the display.

"Very well," he stated genially. "After all you've done for us this is the least I could offer you. Please, come inside."

He stepped back to allow the peppy dragon and his escorting dragonfly to enter his abode. The interior was a little hazy due to the vapour exuding from his smouldering rock salts, but the elder dragon had already set up a cauldron and rearranged his monumental collection of ingredients in jars with cork stoppers. He had spent a good hour trying to decide if he should organise them by name, colour, or attributes, eventually throwing caution to the wind and organising the bottles in whatever manner he found the most aesthetically pleasing. Cosmos had pitched a fit more than once at the haphazard assembly on the rare occasion that he managed to drag himself out of his self-imposed solitude long enough to visit.

Chuckling to himself at this image he sat back on his feathery tail and crossed both legs, suspending himself comfortably in the air, and breathed in the clarifying scent of the burning salt rocks. Spyro sneezed, the salty vapour burning in his nostrils.

"Have you ever used one of our potions before, Spyro?" Lateef queried, eyes slipping closed as he became more relaxed.

"I can't say I have," the purple dragon responded, sitting back on his hind legs. "I've seen some of the other Artisans drink them, though."

The royal blue dragon suspected as much – the concoctions brewed by the Dream Weavers found no bearing amongst the youth, but were used and often abused by their older brethren.

"I shall endeavour to provide a brief overview of what we accomplish as Dream Weavers, then." Spyro nodded, the faraway look in Lateef's eyes creeping him out a little. "When a dragon approaches us for assistance we do not dwell on the small details of magic like the Magic Crafters, or the ethical conundrums like the Beast Makers. No spells are used in our line of work."

Lateef reached out and plucked a vial from the shelf containing a transparent oily solution that seemed to cling to the glass sides of the jar it was trapped within.

"Rather, all our work is done through the medium of potions."

He swiftly turned the vial on its head and held one thumb over the aperture at the top to prevent the liquid from escaping. Disturbing the fluid caused it to emit a soft pint and mint green glow which reflected off the violet scales of the now very impressed dragon as he cooed in awe. The radiance was only conquered by the sunny yellow aura emitted by Sparx himself as he reciprocated Spyro's astonishment.

"You probably discovered during your time with Cosmos that Magic Crafting is only really suitable for those with a predisposition for magic," Lateef retorted, his brow crinkling in distain at this thought. "The use of potions for Dream Weaving was chosen specifically because it avoids this dilemma – an ingredient will still perform its desired effect if used in the right context, regardless of the skill of the dragon involved. You'll probably find the art of Dream Weaving a little more… accessible."

Spyro let out a sigh of relief – finally a dragon that wasn't going to try and dissuade him based on the Homeworld in which he was raised.

"Every ingredient you see on the shelf behind me holds a different property that makes it useful," the elder dragon gestured at the imposing collection to his rear. "The effects of each component have already been explored and inscribed for future use so there is very little trial and error. Whether you're looking to create a dream to assist with studying for an exam, or to gain a glimpse of the future, or just for a pleasant sleep, the necessary ingredients have been documented by the scholars who came before us."

Spyro's eyes gazed up at the towering cabinet in wonder, scanning the exotic contents of each bottle. Most he recognised – the rainbow wings of a beetle, the crushed petals of an orchid – but some appeared to have been plucked right out of a science fiction novel, or a bad fanfiction at that.

"So where do I come in?" he queried, his eyes resting on what appeared to be a snowstorm trapped within the glass confines of an urn.

Lateef handed the purple dragon a book, not even turning around to make sure it was the correct one. Spyro felt a sense of reprieve to find that this particular tome was nowhere near as thick or as worn as the last one he had been presented with. The cover was very… _unique_ , decorated with scribbles of clouds and rainbows that gave it an almost childlike quality.

"That tome does not contain an exhaustive list of ingredients and their effects, but it is useful for beginners," Lateef wistfully remarked, remembering the day he had been presented with the same book by his tutor. "You're welcome to use any of my constituents in any combination you like. I task you with brewing a sleep potion with some sort of effort _other_ than just to help you sleep, then drink it and let me know what the results were."

Spyro glanced up suddenly from the book, having already started to thumb through the pages distractedly as the images assaulted his eyes with bright colours.

"That's all?"

"Yep," the blue dragon replied, his expression not changing from his usual serene gaze.

"No catch?"

"Nope."

"… Do I have to make any potion in particular?"

"Nope."

Spyro looked back down at the book. He wasn't used to having such a hands-off instructor and was a little puzzled on where to even begin. The other elders had been very specific in their expectations of him, so the idea of being given free rein almost left him overwhelmed with possibility; he would have least appreciated a starting point. He was brought out of his reverie by the older dragon tousling the spines on the top of his head affectionately.

"You should have more faith in yourself, Spyro," the cobalt blue dragon remarked warmly. "For an Artisan you worry far too much."

Spyro huffed indignantly but did not respond. Tucking the tome under one arm he thanked the taller dragon and departed with his dragonfly in town, his mind still racing with the endless possibilities held within the pages. Lateef fully expected the dragon pup to dive horns first into the most difficult potion he could muster – he knew better than to try and deter the headstrong purple dragon and would even find himself disappointed if Spyro returned to tell him he had dreamt of puppies. He knew how reckless he was, and there was very little point in trying to change that while he was still so young.

Closing his eyes in meditation, he felt himself beginning to drift off. A poorly brewed potion would thankfully not suffer the same explosive results as an improperly Crafted spell, although a bad dream could potentially leave a young dragon with psychological scars. Lateef was content to simple sit back and let Spyro carve his own way. He briefly considered if he was being a little too inattentive, but his desire to snooze overrode any other obligations he had. His mind drifted into slumber, still in the same meditative stance he took before.

He hoped this time he would dream of good news for a change.

* * *

In his defence, Spyro had not given up as quickly as before.

He immediately found himself grasping the basic concept of Dream Weaving much faster than his excursion with Magic Crafting – the tome thankfully spent very little time covering the intricacies of elixirs and jumped straight to the ingredients he had to play with and what their effects were. He had begun to suspect that the book was perhaps intended to cater to dragons a little… _younger_ than he was, based on the pictures of cartoon dragons explaining everything in speech bubbles, so he didn't doubt that any other books covering the subject would become a boring wade through practises and traditions.

The purple dragon deduced that every concoction began with the same core ingredients and any added in excess to that would dictate the outcome on the drinker. Lavender to send the drinker to sleep. Kava leaves to reduce anxiety. Dried Pulsatilla petals for sedation. The rest of the potion seemed to be made of a milky solution brewed from freshly fallen snow, water from the fabled spring of life, and egg whites. The book even went into details about other more 'controversial' ingredients, such as the use of dragon wings for eternal life. Spyro briefly wondered how this particular property had been discovered, then resolved to never think about it again.

For all he found his footing quickly with the finer parts of Dream Weaving, the Homeworld was not exactly the most… _conductive_ for a session of intense studying. More than once he had found himself distracted by the site of a gaggle of invincible Fools thwacking each other over the head in some sort of twisted game. Considering they were impervious to damage they had been going at it for longer than Spyro had thought they would with no signs of stopping. He understand now why the Dream Weavers had a reputation for being nonsensical.

He made the decision to relocate once the cacophony of incessant warbling of the Slap-Happy Armoured Monks started to grate on his nerves. No wonder the Dream Weavers needed to use potions to get any sort of sleep around here; even Sparx was starting to look a little more antsy than usual, and he couldn't sit still at the best of times.

Besides, he was wondering if he needed a second opinion on this whole thing, and there was only one person that came to mind.

Spyro would maybe describe Elora as being a bit of a stick-in-the-mud, quick to ire but quicker to forgive, and there was no doubt that she was more sensible and down-to-earth than any dragon in the Dream Weavers Homeworld, Spyro included. He would never deny that he valued her opinion greatly, whether he had asked to receive it or not, and for all he couldn't see her being versed in the art of Dream Weaving in any capacity he could still appreciate any input she had to offer.

At least the faun had been easy to track down. Elora seemed to hold the lush green meadows and gentle flowing rivers of Summer Forest close to her heart, despite being the only faun Spyro had ever encountered there, and was tirelessly toiling away trying to get the Homeworld in some sort of presentable shape after Ripto had left his grubby fingerprints all over it. Even after such a long period of time had passed since the angry orange goblin had been overthrown, a lot of the damage he had left in his wake was still being rectified. Regardless, the welcoming atmosphere of the endless meadows had not changed and was a stark contrast against the dank swamp that was the Beast Maker Homeworld, if nothing else.

The two had exchanged small talk before they sat down in the grass together, Elora delicately building a chain of plucked flowers while Spyro explained the situation to her. She was flattered that he had chosen to approach her for assistance instead of any of the other dragons who were undoubtedly more affluent in the subject at hand, but the purple dragon seemed to hold her in high regard. At least she knew why he hadn't visited Avalar in so long – he couldn't go five minutes before involving himself in some sort of contrived scheme to take over the world. She wasn't totally convinced that the dragon dragged into Glimmer by the Professor just _happened_ to be Spyro by pure coincidence, rather than some form of cosmic intervention.

Elora would admit to being completely confounded over the whole situation – the idea of being raised by an entire community rather than a person's parents was not one she had encountered before – but she felt the dragon's plight. The notion of struggling to find one's place in a world that had seemingly already decided it for her was one she was not unaccustomed to, and she was more than willing to offer any council in the matter if she could.

"I mean, I don't know a whole lot about this 'Dream Weaving' stuff," she admitted, plucking another group of flowers from the grass to be added to her chain. "Well, I don't know a single thing about it."

"I know," Spyro responded, watching the ginger faun force her thumb nail through the stem of each flower and link it to the chain, "but I needed a second opinion and you're the most sensible person I know."

Elora stifled a blush before being abruptly handed the tome Spyro was previously nose-deep in. She had never encountered the craftsmanship of a dragon before, but she wasn't completely convinced that the book was not actually a children's colouring book and Spyro had just picked up the wrong one.

"It's very… colourful?" she stated as tactfully as she could managed.

"I'm aware," Spyro responded, deadpan. "I swear it's meant for children, the pages are even waterproof."

Elora giggled at the notion and flicked to the page that Spyro had been so invested in. The paper was lined with cartoonish diagrams of insects, all making peace signs or giving thumbs up, together with a list of potential uses or effects. The faun was surprised to find that she recognised a lot of the components, but some of them were completely foreign to her. How would one even go about collecting the skin of a unicorn anyway?

"So what kind of dream do you have in mind?" she questioned, crossing her hooves and getting more comfortable in the grass.

"Not a clue," Spyro admitted, laying his wings out on either side of his torso and soaking up the warm sunlight. "It's kind of ironic that this whole thing started because I couldn't sleep and now I'm trying to make a sleeping potion..."

Elora hummed in agreement, her attention still focused on the book in front of her. For all she was an inherently magical being in her own right the finer points of magic had never interested her. She much preferred to use her own wits and penchant for motivational speaking to her advantage, rather than rely on the crutch of a spell. Still, the idea of potion making had at least piqued her interest.

"This is fascinating," she mused, her eyes lighting up with interest at the array of exotic insects on display. "I wonder where you could even find a lot of these in the wild…"

"No idea," the dragon huffed, blowing a small puff of smoke out of his nostrils in irritation. "Most of them don't even seem to be native to the Dragon Realms. The majority of the ingredients covered are for peaceful dreams though, so I was probably going to follow that…"

Well, therein lay the problem. Spyro was by no means an incompetent chump, but Elora did sometimes wonder how he had come so far by being so blockheaded. Maybe smashing things with his head had given him brain damage. Shaking her head in bemusement, she closed the book and returned it to the sulking dragon, picking her daisy chain back up and finishing with the final flowers.

"That explain it then, you dork!" she stated matter-of-factly to the now confused dragon. "Since when have you ever tried to follow what someone else told you to do?"

Spyro's face held a befuddled expression as he looked back down at the cover of the book in his hands, Elora's words registering in his mind but not making sense. He heard the dry rustling of the leaves forming the faun's dress as she stood up and hooked the now completed flower crown over his canary yellow horns to rest on his brow bone. If he looked up hard enough he could see the yellow and purple petals hovering on the edge of his vision. He felt warmth rise inside him at the thought that the colours of the petals matched his own scales.

"Instead of caring about what other people _expect_ you to do, just do what you _want_ to do."

Elora tried to stifle a laugh at the sight of the now extremely perplexed purple dragon wearing a flower crown and grasping a children's book. Unable to control herself she ended up hunched over clutching her stomach in a laughing fit, rubbing her eyes as they began to water with the effort. She had _tried_ to be sage in her advice, but… well.

Spyro beheld the now hysterical faun as her words started to sink in, his attention cast back down to the book in his arms. He felt a smile creep across his face as Elora's elation was infectious. The flower crown slipped down his brow and landed across his eyes, obscuring his vision. He shook his head to move it out of the way, resulting in it resting around his neck like a wreath.

Hmm… that was a thought.

"How come you're so clever?" he joking asked Elora, who had sat back down to recover from her laughing fit. She shrugged.

"Guess I'm just that good."

And modest, clearly! Spyro let out a chuckle himself, finding his passion for the project reignited. For all the faun hadn't been able to help him narrow down his options for the potion, he felt revitalised; just what he needed. After such a serious and strenuous week it was refreshing to be able to sit down and have a laugh with a friend.

Plus, he might have figured out what his next steps were; he just needed to put it into practise.

* * *

The tome was very adamant that there was no specific combinations of ingredients that would guarantee a particular dream. Every component had a use, however it was up to the drinker to utilise the full value of the potion – most ingredients were just representative of an idea and the dragon would need to interpret that in their own way.

The elixir was essentially a musical score, but it was down to the drinker to play the symphony.

Spyro was by no means a musician, but being raised around Artisans meant he was at least able to grasp the metaphor. He had retreated back to the Dream Weaver Homeworld after his sojourn to Avalar and was hunched over Lateef's cauldron. The dragon pup had followed the instructions for the base potion and now had a softly bubbling milky white broth. It smelled absolutely _fowl_ – he blamed the egg whites – but it hadn't exploded or melted through the cast iron crucible so he felt like he was on the right track.

He was adamant on what sort of dream he was looking for: he had no use for a dream about practising public speaking, or learning about any past lives he may have had, or even about foreseeing the future. Almost every enemy he had faced against on his travels had been taken down with a single burst of flame or charge with his horns, barring those he could refer to as 'bosses'. Doctor Shemp, Gulp, Buzz. They had all taken a much longer struggle to defeat and Spyro felt like he needed practise.

The only problem was that he couldn't exactly walk out into the wilderness and fight a pack of Gulps like he could with the Gnorcs. They was only one, and he was already gone; if he could _dream_ about fighting them then maybe he could use it as a chance to try some tactics that he wouldn't be able to in real life for fear of failure. After all, if he messed up in his dream it wouldn't have any real world consequences.

Nodding to himself in determination, he slipped the flower wreath back over his head and held it firmly in one hand. He considered the fact that Elora had chosen to use Dandelions and Lobelia for the circlet might have been more than just to match his own colour scheme. Dandelion symbolised 'overcoming hardship' and Lobelia symbolised 'malevolence'; considering what he was planning on dreaming of, they would ideal. He was wary at the idea of destroying a gift from a close friend, but his current plight demanded his full cooperation.

Determined not to allow his hesitation to talk him out of it, he tossed the flower crown into the cauldron and watched it sink below the surface of the fluid.

Unwavering in his decision not to focus on the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach he used a stainless steel ladle to stir the mixture, turning the potion a magenta pink as the flower petals were dissolved into the solution. He was relieved to find that the noxious fumes were covered by the floral scent of the plants. After he was sure the potion was completely blended he used the ladle to scoop up a cup-sized amount and held it to his lips.

He was sure he was supposed to put it in a flask or something first, but considering he was just going to drink it straight away he decided to save on dishes to clean. Raising the ladle in cheers to Sparx who was watching on nervously, he downed the mixture in the spoon in one mouthful. Pulling a face, he noted that the floral highlights were not restricted to only the smell – it tasted like he had just eaten a mouthful of lawn shavings.

Shaking his head in disgust he fought down the nausea bubbling up in his stomach and flopped down onto the softest pillow he could find, curling his head under his tail. Lateef hadn't _technically_ told him he could also sleep in his house, but it wasn't like he was going to make the trek back to the Artisan Homeworld just to have a nap. Besides, he was pretty sure flying under the influence of a sleep potion would land him into trouble if he crashed.

He felt the potion begin to take effect almost immediately as he sunk deeper into the feather-down pillow. Sparx landed on his back and rested alongside the dragon as his eyelids drew closed on their own and he drifted off.

The first thing Spyro noticed was that he was aware he was dreaming. The world around him held an almost surreal quality, with the vibrant colours of the night sky of Winter Tundra muted and almost pastel. The position of the stars in the sky seemed to change every time he blinked and his limbs felt light, as though they weren't attached to the rest of his body. It certainly wasn't uncomfortable per se, but Spyro could tell that what he was experiencing wasn't real.

He was pleased to find that his elixir had worked – he was in the palace courtyard surrounded by rivers of open lava and facing against Ripto once more. The orange pest was as rage filled as always, but Spyro couldn't understand what he was saying. Not that this mattered: now the two could fight again and Spyro could get some much needed practise in!

Ripto raised his glowing purple Sceptre above his head in an overly dramatic fashion and blasted a cluster of white orbs at high speed towards the purple dragon. Grinning to himself he quickly charged back and forth in a zigzag pattern, feeling his heart pumping as the balls of light narrowly avoided searing his scales. Now this was familiar to him! He skidded to a halt and began to excitedly scan the arena for the powered up orbs that Hunter would drop for him.

No orbs materialised, and the sky was devoid of any flying cheetahs.

Glancing around in confusion, he spotted Ripto running around the arena as if he was still trying to collect orbs but nothing had fallen for him to use. The Professor was supposed to have infused the green spheres with various abilities that both Spyro and Ripto could use against each other after collecting enough, but nothing was happening. The purple dragon was frozen in mystification – this wasn't how he remember it!

This feeling grew into fear as Ripto tersely stopped in his tracks and hunched over in pain. Letting out a ferocious howl the dragon watched on in terror as he began to grow at an astonishing rate, tearing through his clothes and yowling in apparent pain. Fangs began to protrude from his jaw and his single horn became a large, wicked spear. The transformation only stopped when Ripto stood at four times Spyro's height, towering over him in a mockery of his previously tiny stature.

Still struck with fright at the transformation, Spyro wasn't able to react in time and found himself being punted across the arena, stopping just shy of the lava pit that enclosed the duo. The monster that was previously Ripto snarled in victory, sending shivers down the dragon's spine. He had wanted to use his dream to face off against his nemesis again, but not like this! Spyro prided himself on his ability to think on his feet, but his mind was so astonished at the dramatic change in events that he couldn't bring himself to retaliate.

" **WAS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED,** _ **DRAGON?!**_ **"** the monstrous orange dinosaur roared, the bestial rage in his voice echoing off the stone walls of the castle. **"IS THIS WHO YOU ARE?!"**

Spyro's mouth felt parched like he hadn't drunk water in days. Ripto growled and charged at the incapacitated dragon again, his feet cracking the stone underfoot with his newfound weight. He fully intended to lob Spyro into the lava behind him – a fitting end considering Ripto himself had suffered the same fate at the dragon's hands. None of his limbs would respond as the orange dinosaur closed the gap between the two, spit frothing at his mouth and eyes hungry for revenge. Realising that he wasn't going to be able to get out of the warpath in time, Spyro gasped and folded his wings in front of his head to protect himself from as much damage as he could.

The impact never came.

Opening his eyes and peeking through a gap in his wings, Spyro found himself in an oriental style dojo perched precariously on a cliff side and surrounded by dull green and yellow grass. Feeling his heart racing in his chest he dug his claws into the tatami mat under his feet and tried to calm down. It was clear that he was no longer in Avalar, or indeed in any location he had visited prior. All that mattered was that he was still alive.

Slowing his breathing he took in the area. The sky was breath taking, streaked with pink and gold light from somewhere beyond the horizon, but he noticed how dull the area seemed to be. All the colours seemed to be desaturated and hollow, and even the environment was barren with only the occasional dragonfly hovering around, staring at the foreign dragon in their midst. Spyro wasn't sure if he was seeing the realm in a different light because he was dreaming, or if the world itself was indeed so devoid of life. Then again, it might not even exist at all. And why was Moneybags in a kimono?!

His head pounding with conflicting emotions, he rubbed his eyes hard enough to see spots to try and clear his mind. When he reopened them he had moved again, now finding himself in a large industrial facility with conveyor belts and metal grates on almost every surface. Seems like Red was using a combination of magic and technology to transform his minions into indestructible robots. The Beast Makers would either be proud or horrified.

Speaking of the menace, Red had finally found it within himself to show up. Spyro readied himself – he was more than capable of taking the disgraced elder down and was itching for a fight. Electricity burned in his throat, ready to shock the ruby dragon if he came within five feet of him. He was tired of being underestimated by everyone who met him and the desire to enact justice flowed through his veins.

Charging at the dragon, Spyro was shocked to find that Red did not respond to his presence, as if his mind was somehow elsewhere. Snorting in irritation he head-butted the elder as hard as he could, sending the taller dragon toppling to the floor like a fallen tree. As he skidded backwards with the force of the impact he collided with an ambiguous machine to his rear which began sparking violently, wires hanging loose due to the damage inflicted.

Before Red could pull himself to his feet, a might bolt of electricity leapt from the tear in the machine and struck the dragon, sending him into violent spasms. Spyro shielded his eyes from the intense burst of light, only to find that Red had been transformed into a robot himself. How ironic. Red inspected his now reflective scarlet metal exoskeleton, seemingly unfazed, before pulling himself back to his feet. He didn't seem to care: he viewed it as just another tool to use in his quest for retribution against the dragons who had exiled him. Plus, he could shoot rockets now, which was always nice.

Spyro braced himself for the imminent conflict, but this never came. His stomach churning with vertigo, he was wrenched away from the scene before the metallic fiend could attack and leave him nothing more than a red smear on the ground.

The eerie galactic skies of Convexity were doubtlessly beautiful, but betrayed the venomous aura that permeated the entire dimension. A sense of malignancy could be felt in the air, the magic saturated in every breath tingling against Spyro's tongue and leaving a metallic aftertaste in its wake. A bellowing echo reverberated against his ear drums from a Void Whale languidly drifting in the distance.

Sparx said something unintelligible, the purple dragon still unable to comprehend any words being spoken, but he didn't doubt that it was probably steeped in sarcasm. Exchanging a look with his brother, he pushed on over the floating rocks towards what appeared to be the centre of the dimension. A bright purple bolt of lightning shot up in perpetuity from a blindingly bright light source, probably some kind of black hole. No one would describe Convexity as lacking in interest, at least.

Spyro was intensely nervous but resolute in his stance. He carried the weight of the world on his flightless shoulders, and was reinforced by the thought of the other dragons waiting at home for him. Steeling his nerves and followed closely by the dragonfly who had refused to allow him to go alone, he took a step forwards towards the light.

Hearing a crash behind him, Spyro turned around in time to see the shadow of a towering black dragon open her mouth and snap shut around his head.

A dragon sat at a desk, surrounded by copious mounds of books and illuminated only by the soft glow of an oil lamp. He wrote with a quill, occasionally dipping the tip into an ink well as he continued to expand the contents of the newest tome. Closing the covers of the book with finality he tossed it over his shoulder onto the top of the pile behind him, and picked up a fresh book. Etching a continuous stream of words onto the first page of the new tome without pause, his grey scales shifted into blue as he adjusted his position to address the purple dragon.

" _You shall know me as the Chronicler. Seek me out."_

Spyro woke.

* * *

Lateef remembered the first dream he had Weaved.

He could not remember any time that he would have considered himself as being more powerful than any other dragon whose name was spoken in the same breath. He was decidedly mediocre, competent enough to avoid blowing himself up but without any unique talent that might have set him apart from the next dragon. He was average for his size, average for his weight, and average in his personality.

He didn't mind. The Dream Weavers did not place a strong focus on those uniquely gifted, or even a strong focus on tutoring. The Homeworld was a tranquil place, undisturbed by conflict or complications since before Lateef was hatched, and the majority of dragons were content for that to continue. Why cause distress in a young developing dragon when they could be allowed to play and learn freely on their own? Why encourage _any_ dragon to delve into their specific talents when the act of Dream Weaving was so accessible to any level of ability? Lateef wasn't even sure he could remember having a mentor at all, and certainly not any kind of formal training.

He was passably confident that he may never have been trained in Dream Weaving at all if he hadn't been so insistent. The leader, a youthful green dragon born maybe only a couple of clutches before Lateef himself, seemed content with allowing each dragon to pursue their own goals and achievements with little to no input on his behalf. Lateef appreciated that he was not forced to attention the prison camp that was school, but was a little dismayed that the opportunity to learn may have completely passed him by.

The leader had been prepared to coach the young Lateef in the ways of Dream Weaving, which turned out to be nothing more than giving him a book detailing the process and sending him on his merry way so that he could sleep. The cyan dragon had been concerned that the leader spent a lot of time drinking his own potions and slumbering, but he couldn't deny that the idea of nothing but blissful dreams for the rest of his life sounded rapturous.

He had followed the instructions given to him, produced a potion, and slept for twelve hours. He dreamt of vast meadows of poppies and cathedrals made of gold. He skipped stones across a frozen glacier and made s'mores in an open volcano. He explored the entirely of the Dragon Realms without leaving the comfort of his home.

So why wasn't he gratified?

His potion had worked – he had experienced the dream he was looking for, but he felt a sorrowful emptiness in his stomach. Following the instructions to the letter hadn't satisfied his curiosity. He wanted to try dreams that no one had ever dreamt before, good or bad, and use ingredients in new and inventive ways. He wasn't appeased by just throwing flowers and bugs in a pot and then getting eight hours a night.

He hadn't twigged as to the cause of his unhappiness until the leader passed away. He had been consuming more and more of his own potions, needing multiple doses to get a restful sleep. Lateef knew that the carefree quality of sleep awarded by Dream Weaving was intoxicating, but he hadn't know it was addictive. How easy was it to just roll over and go back to sleep instead of facing the difficulties of real life. When had the Dream Weavers become so dependent on their elixirs to the point where they would freely ignore their own existence for the sake of an extra hour in bed?

Lateef didn't like what the Dream Weavers had become.

He didn't see himself as an overly serious individual, still preferring a lifetime of play and leisure over petty politics, but he wouldn't allow his Realm to fall into such a dire state of apathy. He knew there had to be a happy medium, but even _he_ struggled to find where this was. He was at least grateful to Spyro for rescuing him and his kin from crystal – it forced the otherwise hapless dragons to face the realities that they had been so stringently avoiding.

He was devastated when he learned Spyro had a night terror under his watch.

Lateef would admit that he didn't really know the young dragon all that well: Dream Weavers tended to be a little reclusive when it came to the other Realms. The only times he had encountered the purple dragon revealed him to be a cocky and innocent child, filled with wonder and enthrallment at the world around him. Seeing him in a state of distress was not an experience the cobalt blue dragon wanted to have again.

After calming the young dragon down, he covered the dream he had suffered through with vivid details, gesturing wildly as his Artisan blood showed itself through his imagination. Lateef was not surprised that Spyro had gone for a theme that was outside the norm for Dream Weaving, but he _was_ surprised to hear that he had such a violent reaction to the elixir. He probably should have mentioned that the recipe was intended for an adult dragon, so he should have perhaps halved the measurements…

"It's difficult for me to say what exactly you experienced," Lateef consoled as Spyro began to calm down. "Judging by the fact that you mentioned the dragon 'Red', whom you will hopefully never cross paths with, it would appear that you had a prophetic dream."

Spyro finally began to calm down, his dragonfly buzzing around in worry. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and did his best to steady his breathing.

"Are you sure?" he queried.

"Not at all!" Lateef laughed warmly. "The future is very unpredictable and volatile and can be changed by even the smallest thing. It's possible that what you witnessed will never come true, and it's equally possible that events may take place exactly as you witnessed them."

Spyro felt his wings sag in disappointment – if this turned out to be the case it meant that Ripto had somehow survived his cannonball into lava, and he had already had more than enough of the cheeto villain. Then again, he supposed that his dream had fulfilled what he wanted. He now had a chance to prepare and consider a strategy to defend himself should the need arise. Lateef patted the young dragon on the shoulder affectionately.

"Anxiety begets apathy, young one," he stated cryptically. "There is no use in worrying about what may not come to be, otherwise you may find yourself unable to take action if it does."

Spyro sighed.

"You're right," he admitted. "And I guess I still had the dream that I asked to have, although maybe looking back it wasn't the one I wanted."

Lateef nodded, pleased that his advice was sinking in.

"Are you going to return to Nestor now?"

Spyro rubbed the spines on his nape in thought.

"... Not yet," he replied wistfully. "I guess I still have one more Realm to visit."

Lateef was confused for a moment before Spyro's words took hold. He nodded in understanding and allowed the tired dragon and his dragonfly to depart his home. He had hoped that his instruction in the Dream Weavers arts would have left the purple dragon in better spirits but he was content knowing that his time in the Homeworld was not for nought. He reflected on his previous sentiment that he was being too hands-off, and remembering the sloth of the leader before him, resolved to do better in the future.

Using the ladle, he siphoned a sizable amount of Spyro's potion from the cauldron into a glass bottle and capped it with a cork. The mixture was now cold, but Lateef liked preserving the first attempt of each dragon he had taught – it was always good to whip them out at birthday parties and embarrass them. Chortling to himself, he wrote the ingredients used on a label and attached it to the side of the bottle before stopping himself.

Spyro hadn't used any ingredients that would have caused a clairvoyant dream.

Eyes widening, he perused the list of components again to be sure. He had expected Spyro to have used something like Swallowwort, or Crayfish shells, or maybe he had even dipped into his prized pot of Unicorn skin for him to have had such a divinatory slumber. But no, nothing of the sort had contributed to the elixir, meaning that the clarity of the dream and the fact that Spyro had a precognitive dream at _all_ must have been done under his own power.

Lateef shook his head and cast the thought out of his mind. It was not possible to know if the dragon pup's experience was indicative of future events or if they would eventually come to pass after all, or even that he wasn't just having an intense nightmare. He would do good to follow his own advice and not allow concern for something that may never occur to sway his hand.

Lighting a stick of incense to calm his nerves, he sat back on his tail and crossed his legs, running his claws through his feathered wings and preening them. Spyro was no doubt a lot of work, but the sapphire dragon felt like he had the wind kicked out of him. His mind wandered back to the Legend of the Purple Dragon and he smiled to himself.

Seems like the Council of Elders would need to convene one more time.


	6. Chapter 6

(We almost there, thank God I didn't have to write any dialogue this time)

* * *

Spyro wasn't sure what had brought him to Gnorc Gnexus in the first place.

Very few dragons still considered the former Dragon Junk Yard to be one of the Dragon Realms any more – this was the case long before Gnasty Gnorc was forcibly imprisoned within the cast iron borders of the Homeworld. Of course, the continued residence of the ugly green orc had not helped in that regard, but no dragon had resided within the wastelands for millennia before then. Only the most intrepid of dragons or bravest of Balloonists would even be willing to make the trek to the isolated lands. Even the inherent magic of the place had faded, still barely clinging to life as the years passed and the Realm became more and more out of touch.

Gnorc Gnexus wasn't even on the list of worlds Spyro had planned to visit, considering there was no elder to learn from and no dragons that called the dismantled Realm their home, but he had found himself inexplicably drawn there. He could at least justify the cause – he  _had_  embarked on his journey in order to learn about the other worlds and try to determine his place in them after all, and the former Dragon Junk Yard  _was_  one of said worlds…

That being said, he still found himself distinctly on edge. The foreboding aura that seemed to envelop the area had mostly dispersed after Gnasty had been given the old hot-foot, but the air itself seemed to be weighed down with a sense of neglect and abandonment. Spyro deliberated if anybody had even disturbed the layers of dust on the ground after he had ventured here last. Very few history books covered the denizens who had previously inhabited the Realm; it almost seemed like the remaining dragons were happy for the Realm to simply fall into obscurity.

Spyro just wanted to get away from it all for a while. He hated feeling ambivalent about anything; the words and teachings of the leaders still whirled in his head like a typhoon and he hadn't completely processed them. Combine that with his own lingering sensation of self-worth and it produced a noxious mind-set that was still eating away at him. He didn't want any second opinions, he didn't want any lectures on morality, he just wanted some time alone. Even if it was only for a moment.

Sparx was loathe to leave the purple dragon unattended, especially considering that Spyro's mood had notably dimmed with each Homeworld he voyaged to, but the purple dragon insisted. Even Amos the Balloonist had tried to convince him otherwise, but no one would ever describe Spyro as being fickle or easily swayed. Reassuring the increasingly concerned dragonfly that he would be back before sunset, he had boarded the balloon to the desolate wastelands.

Dropping the young dragon off, Amos had refused to dock in Gnorc Gnexus for long, citing the inherently unwelcoming atmosphere. He had loosed a few sandbags from the side of the airship and advised Spyro that he would return to collect him before his self-imposed curfew, but he would not leave himself open to attack by waiting around. Spyro couldn't necessary blame him – he was grateful that he had even agreed to ferry him at  _all_  – and wholeheartedly agreed. He just had to make sure he didn't lose track of time, otherwise he'd be forced to spend the night, and that was a fate he didn't want to consider.

He had felt a rush of nostalgia hit him at the sight of the dragon heads in the Homeworld. Very little remained of the essence of the dragons that had once inhabited the Realm, either due to neglect or intentionally defaced by Gnasty and his gremlins, but the portals had stood the test of time. The only other portal of its kind could be found in the Artisan Homeworld, constructed as a replica of the originals after the Dragon Junkyard had been abandoned. Spyro couldn't help but wonder about the stories of the dragon that bore the visage of the portals.

Breaking eye contact with the imposing construct, he entered Gnorc Cove. The purple dragon didn't really have any destination in mind, content to aimlessly wander the lands and reflect. It had been a long time since he was able to choose a direction and just meander, even more so now that the portals to Avalar and the Forgotten Realms had been permanently erected, so it was almost liberating to have no final goal to work towards.

Spyro was actually pleasantly surprised for once.

It seemed like the former shipyard had benefitted greatly from Gnasty's absence. For all the docks were just as gloomy and utilitarian as before, the water was notably less polluted and didn't smell of rancid waste. The rambunctious honking of seagulls seemed echo off every surface, and although the cacophony started to reverberate through Spyro's skull, the gentle crashing of waves against the docks calmed his nerves a little.

Making his way over the rickety and rotting wooden bridges, and wondering why they hadn't been made of metal, he noted that he felt oddly relaxed. The last time he had found himself in Gnorc Cove the area had been a hive of activity, with silver barrels plunging into the inky depths of the bay at an astonishing rate, TNT barrels being thrown around like toys, and the repeated bellowing of a ship horn. He had never discovered what Gnasty had been using the cove for, but he had suspected that it was actually closer to the intended purpose of the docks than he original thought.

Now that the flurry of movement and clanging has ceased, a tranquil atmosphere had enveloped the area. Spyro found his attention cast back to his time in Breeze Harbour, but shook his head before he could think too much about the repugnant trolley track. Gnorc Cove didn't hold a candle to any of the seaside resort he was familiar with and likely never would, but the purple dragon found himself appreciating the solitude and rustic ambience more.

He still gave the TNT barrels a wide berth. He wasn't about to forget  _those._

He breathed in deeply, feeling the sting of the salt on the wind tingling his nostrils. His mind was cast back to the sensation he experienced with Lateef's rock salts, although the sea air was much more pleasant and less overwhelming. His mind had calmed from the onslaught he had faced and he found himself able to interpret the events of his dream with a more rational mind. Rather than focus on the crushing fear he had experiences, his mind was already ticking over the events he had witnessed.

Firstly, if what he saw was correct then Ripto had somehow survived. This wasn't all that implausible, seeing as the Sorceress had initially survived her dip into lava the first time, but the magic he had used to transform into…  _whatever_ that was didn't jive with Spyro's admittedly limited encounters with magic. He had faced off against larger enemies before so he felt a little disconcerted that he found himself so easily overpowered, but chalked it up to being caught off guard.

The part that was bothering him the most began with the conflict with this 'Red' character. He was sure he had heard the name before, whispered under baited breath and closed doors, but he couldn't put a claw on it. Even more worrying was the fact that he had clearly been belligerent towards other dragons, and Spyro didn't know any dragon that wasn't part of the Realms. He wondered why Lateef had wished that the two would never cross paths, but the unnerved feeling in his stomach conformed to this sentiment.

Spyro was suddenly stopped in his tracks by walking headfirst into a large mass blocking his path. Wincing as his snout was smooshed by the impact he fell back on his hind legs and gingerly rubbed his nose, grateful that no one who mattered was there to witness that. He was doing exactly what Lateef had told him  _not_ to do – he was spending too much time worrying about something that might not even happen. Besides, even if the events seen in his dream did turn out to be an accurate prophecy, would Spyro even be able to change the course of fate? If he couldn't prevent the events themselves from occurring, if the future was already set in stone, was it worth his time giving himself anxiety over it?

The blockade Spyro had meandered in to let out a deep grunt as it pulled itself up from the cold concrete floor. Blearily rubbing its eyes as if woken from sleep, it rolled over almost crushing the purple dragon. As he sharply hopped back out of the way, the two made eye contact, the sudden flicker of recognition registering in the monster's eyes.

It was a very large and very sleepy Dockworker.

Spyro felt himself reflexively jerk back in preparation. The Gnorc, now fully awake at the sight of the dragon, let out a bellowing roar and pulled itself to its feet. The purple dragon might have been away from Gnorc Cove for a long time, but the burning desire for revenge was still strong within the black heart of the minion. Casting his eyes back, Spyro noted that the howl had alerted some of the other snoozing denizens which were clamouring to see the cause of the commotion.

Spyro's mind instinctively ticked over his options. On one hand he could take the Gnorc out on his own, but the armour it was wearing would protect it from his flame, at least from the front. If he could get behind it he could torch its butt, or if he could lure it towards a metal barrel he could use that to break it's armour.

On the  _other_  hand, Spyro was without the fortification provided by Sparx so even a single hit could be enough to incapacitate the young dragon, and it was clear the Gnorcs' hatred of dragons had not diminished. Plus, what was previously a single drowsy Gnorc was rapidly becoming hoard, and for all Spyro knew he had defended himself against more than enough Gnorcs in his lifetime, if something happened to him then Amos wouldn't be returning until the evening so he was completely on his own.

He spotted a Gnorc in his peripheral vision tentatively reaching for a TNT barrel.

His mind turned back to the advice given to him by Titan – it was important to pick and choose his battles. Spyro's gut was telling him he would torch these fools no problem, but his head was telling him that he was massively outnumbered. Noting that the Gnorcs were starting to approach and the Dockworker had picked up a TNT barrel ready to smash it off the dragon's head, he made his decision.

He turned and ran.

Wincing as the harsh scraping of a metal barrel against the ground skidded past his head, he charged away as fast as his legs would carry him back towards the way he had come in. He couldn't leave a Realm the same way he had come in, but maybe he could duke the Gnorcs and zip around them somehow. He might be unable to overpower them, but he could certainly outsmart them. Then again, a cheese sandwich could probably outsmart a Gnorc.

Jumping over a chasm between storage units to avoid the haphazard bridge, he unfurled his leathery wings and glided safely to the ground. He turned his head to see several Gnorcs attempt to cross the bridge at once, resulting in the rotten wood splintering beneath their feet and plummeting them into the icy waters. Snickering at their misfortune and gloating that his intuition was correct, he ducked behind one of the storage crates and wiggled his way into a gap between the slabs of corrugated metal. He hoped his scales would protect him from tetanus…

This was just in the nick of time – as the purple dragon disappeared into the crawlspace a large explosion detonated where he had once stood, set off by a lobbed TNT barrel. The heat dried his eyes out, but his tough hide was more than enough to prevent the amethyst scales from being singed. He ducked in an attempt to make his silhouette as small as he could and watched nervously as the shadows of the minions darted past, unable to see the retreating dragon but lacking the foresight to consider checking the crowded storage area.

Spyro waited until the coast was clear before emerging from the improvised cubby hole. He didn't like using such underhanded tactics instead of facing his problems head-on, but if his time in Misty Bog had taught him anything his stealth skills had clearly improved. Discovering that the Gnorc's were now wandering around confusedly at the realisation that they had lost their target, the dragon pup took the opportunity to leg it towards the exit portal.

This was far more excitement than he had wanted!

* * *

Twilight Harbour had… not fared as well as Gnorc Cove.

Spyro didn't believe for one second that the Gnorc's had enough brain cells between them to build such an enormous factory on their own; it was more likely that they had simply re-purposed what was already there. Gnasty's influence had made an enormous impact on the Harbour and left it in a dire condition.

The factory was deactivated – obviously – but it seemed that this was not intentional. Spyro had not returned after his last visit, and he doubted any other dragon had done so, meaning that the engines and machinery had been left running. It wasn't clear how long ago this had changed, but more than one building had the roof blown clean off so he assumed that the machinery had perhaps overheated or failed due to neglect, and this was the result.

The pleasant ocean air still washed over the walkways, but the scent of sea salt on the wind was stifled by the thick miasma of oil and sludge. The degradation of the factory had resulted in a substantial oil spill, tainting the formerly golden reflective waters a murky brown. Even as Spyro walked he kicked up rust from the grating beneath his feet, making him concerned that the walkways could give way beneath him.

Spyro felt his heart grow heavy. This was not the first world he had encountered that had been ravaged by pollution, but this was the worst he had ever seen it. What remained of the dragon's presence was lost beneath piles of sewage and oxidation – he felt sorrow knowing that he would probably never know anything of the dragons who used to reside in this Realm. Gnasty had obliterated anything that remained of the magic that would have saturated this place, either on purpose in an attempt to wipe out all evidence of the dragons that he loathed, or out of ignorance.

The purple dragon couldn't help but feel a sense of guilt for the current state of the Realm. He knew it wasn't exactly his responsibility to make sure the factory was decommissioned before he left, but he wondered if he should have tried to convince the dragons to reclaim the Gnorc Gnexus rather than the Forgotten Realms.

Slapping himself, he tried to get this thought out of his head. The dragons had already written the former Junk Yard off well before Spyro had hatched, so it was likely already beyond the point where it could be saved. In comparison, the Forgotten Realms had been clinging on to the remaining magic for almost 3000 years – he couldn't necessarily blame the others for wanting to invest their time in the gold bar, rather than the lump of coal.

He morosely meandered through the Realm without purpose, the cascading golden rays of the perpetual sunset peeking through the clouds and warming the scales on Spyro's back. The gentle crashing of waves against the metal was still as soothing as before, and did a lot to take the edge off his nerves. Despite the repugnant atmosphere of Twilight Harbour, he still found himself feeling more relaxed as time went on. At least he hadn't been jumped on by any oversized Gnorcs yet, so that was always a plus.

Speaking of which, Spyro's attention was grabbed by what seemed to be a warm flickering light coming from one of the factory buildings. It could just be the permanent sunset reflecting off one of the many metallic surfaces, or maybe a fire had broken out, but his curiosity was piqued. Afraid of another potential ambush, he carefully creeped towards the building and peered inside.

His eyes took a moment to adjust to the sudden light as he found himself looking directly at a burning fire pit.

Blinking rapidly to clear his vision, he saw a small group of Gnorcs wearing camo print huddling around a campfire. He felt a brief flutter in his chest seeing that they still bore the firearms on their backs, but they weren't paying attention to their surrounds at all. One of the larger looking grunts wearing leopard print pants and a torn red beret was cooking what seemed to be a rat on a stick, smoking it over the open flame with the others looked on, openly salivating.

Spyro felt conflicted at the sight. He knew that approaching them was a bad idea, especially considering they were heavily armed so he kept his distance, but something seemed to be off about this. Why were the Gnorcs still fervently protecting the dying Realm with their leader terminated? They were still even wearing Gnasty's uniform, some with medals made of metal scraps still proudly displayed on their chests. It seemed like Gnasty's authority still held weight over his minions, even in death.

The Gnorcs were clearly too hungry and to impatient to continue waiting, and started squabbling over the toasted rat. The Gnorc Survivalist held the stick above his head while the others tried to bat it out of his hand, swiping at the morsel of meat hungrily. One of them inadvertently punched the other in the face which devolved into an all-out brawl, none of the monsters noticing that the rat had fallen into the fire and was now no more than a lump of charcoal.

Spyro shook his head in dismay and decided to leave the scrapping monsters to themselves. He remembered the advice given to him by Bruno – dragons could not and  _should_  not decide who does and doesn't deserve to live. The young dragon got the distinct impression that the elder would have taken out the Gnorcs without a second thought, seeing as they could be a potential threat, but from what Spyro could see they were simply choosing to continue guarding the Realm they had sworn to protect. Besides, if they were considering mounting an attack on any of the other Realms then would wouldn't still be posted within the confines of Twilight Harbour.

He almost considered their dedication to their former master a noble cause.

What was he doing, trying to empathise with the Gnorcs who had previously attempted to shoot and kill him? The monsters certainly wouldn't spend their time pondering the moral repercussions of their actions while trying to pump a kilo of lead into the small dragon. Spyro wondered when he had become so introspective and when the worlds stopped being so black and white to him. Sighing and continuing with his journey, he ventured to his last port of call.

* * *

The peaceful atmosphere that had fallen over Gnasty's Loot was quickly disturbed by whooping as Spyro took to the skies in free flight.

He dove and span through the air, dodging between piping and narrowly avoiding being seared by the open lava. He flew as low as was safe and as high as he dared, pushing the magic that allowed his to fly with no restrictions to its absolute limit. He beat his wings as hard as his muscles would let him and flew straight up, gaining height until he breached the reach of the magic trapped within the boundaries of the world. He paused in his ascent before quickly falling back down to earth, opening his wings at the last moment and soaring against the ground in exhilaration.

Spyro still detested the fact that he was unable to fly under his own magic. He could take on whole armies on his own, Craft spells, Weave dreams, but he still didn't have the power of free flight. He knew the size of his wings had nothing to do with it – some of the older dragons had wings barely larger than their heads for crying out loud – and that this ability was completely dependent on a dragon's own magic reserves, but he still needed supplementary magic from the environment to manage anything more than a brief glide.

He dodged beneath three rusty pipes that jutted precariously out of a wall and curved back into the ground beneath him, gritted his fangs, then angled himself upwards into a loop. Feeling his eyes spinning slightly in his head he spun himself mid-air in an aileron roll before his face and the ground became too closely acquainted. He could hear the blood rushing through his ears, fuelled by adrenaline.

The purple dragon had always had an inkling that the world now known as 'Gnasty's Loot' was previously a flight training course, like Sunny Flight from the Artisans Homeworld. There were no other worlds in all of the Dragon Realms where the saturation of magic was so intense that it was buoyant enough to allow even the smallest dragon whelp to fly under their own power, even in the Realms still occupied by the dragons. Spyro's mind wandered to consider the dragons that would have trained in these grounds before him, honing their acrobatic abilities ready for true flight once they reached the right age. He smiled at the thought that he was following in their footsteps. Well, wing beats.

Spyro skidded to a halt on a patch of mossy earth, wincing as he landed harder than he intended and the impact reverberated through his knees, and admired the locale. Gnasty had clearly found very little use for this world as it had been mostly untouched by the corruption he seemed to leave in his wake, and nature had returned to take back what was lost. Almost every surface was covered in moss and plants, some even flowering despite the tumultuous conditions, and he could see the tops of perennial trees peeking above the borders of the Realm when he flew to the highest point. The chirping of birds could be heard from an unseen direction.

Panting at the exertion of his flying, Spyro lay down and rubbed his back into the earth, feeling the blades of grass tickling between his scales and the scent of pollen in the air. Oddly enough, he was reminded of the sprawling meadows of the Artisan Homeworld; if he closed his eyes long enough he could almost believe that he was back home.

Almost.

Even though this Realm was mostly intact, the absence of dragons had continued to take its toll. In the other flight training worlds Spyro was able to fly as high and as long as he dared, but in Gnasty's Loot he could only fly as high as his last perch. It was obvious that the magic had started to siphon itself out of the world, no longer powerful enough to act on its own and needing the inherent magic of a dragon to function. Gnasty would not have been able to utilise the magic in the area so the continued neglect had caused it to dissipate. Spyro wondered how long it would last before the world was no longer able to sustain free flight and it became as barren as any of the other worlds in Gnorc Gnexus.

Huffing and spitting a small smoke cloud from his nostrils, he linked his arms behind his head and closed his eyes. He had lost track of time in Twilight Harbour, being that the Realm was in a constant state of sunset, but the dusk had started to fall over the Homeworld as a whole, indicating that his time was coming to a close. He had ventured to Gnorc Gnexus to have a chance to relax and get away from his obligations, but had done the exact opposite. His ability to find trouble wherever he went even surprised  _him_  sometimes.

Spyro reflected on his experiences with the other elders. It was clear to him now that he had a  _lot_  of misconceptions as to what the other Dragon Realms contributed to their society, although he was honoured that they had all agreed to take time out of their undoubtedly busy lives to entertain the purple dragon and his whims.

He had seen the Magic Crafters as wizard with unlimited power, but in reality they were bound themselves by a self-imposed set of rules, whether that was a good thing or not. He had seen the Peace Keepers as heroic machos that defended the Realms with their bare hands, but in reality they were cautious and meticulous, preferring to strike with precision and with the right timing. He had seen the Beast Makers as backwards shamans obsessed with dangerous creatures, but in reality they grappled with the moral implications of their actions on the daily. And he had seen the Dream Weavers as airheaded and incomprehensible sleep addicts, but in reality they were relied on by countless dragons and non-dragons alike for their wellbeing.

He wondered if he had any misconceptions about the Artisans.

He also considered that the elders were not perfect. Cosmos had insisted that the use of Sigils was paramount to success, but was unable to consider the possibility of triumph without using then. Titan had insisted that adhering to a specific role in a team was necessary, yet his narrow-sightedness has delayed a resolution to the conflict. Bruno had lectured that dragons should not decide the fate of those seen as beneath them, but had made that decision himself when he detonated the explosives to take out the Attack Frogs. And Lateef had stressed that making himself anxious over something he could not control was unwise, yet he himself was so laid back that he had not taken the needed steps to ensure Spyro was properly informed before he Weaved his own dream.

Speaking of which, Spyro sat up suddenly and clasped his palms together. Closing his eyes he allowed his magic to well up in his belly and trickle down his arms before clapping his hands together. A bouquet of golden sparks erupted from his clasped palms, coagulating together and forming a gold and pink butterfly. Spyro let out a breath that he hadn't realised he'd been holding – for all he still wasn't finding Sigils to be particularly useful it was good to know that the spell he had Crafted was still viable.

He also noted that it was much easier this time. His arms tingled but there was no pain, and he didn't feel out of breath in any way like he did the first time. He was either getting better at keeping his magic in check, or he was funnelling more magic into the spell. Either way, he beamed at the sign of improvement.

Watching the butterfly flutter away and land on a patch of marigolds, he considered the Dragon Junk Yard. Part of him mourned at the loss of the world, seemingly beyond the point of restoration, yet another quieter part of him felt hopeful. It may only be restricted to Gnasty's Loot, but nature had already begun to take the Realm back from the clutches of Gnasty; it would hopefully be only a matter of time before the other more impacted worlds returned to the earth like this one. They might never be useful to the dragons again, but just because they were not useful to them didn't meant that they had to interfere.

Spyro wanted to see the lands restored to their original glory, but perhaps allowing nature to take its course was an equally agreeable option.

Spyro was not opposed to the idea that he was not the most intellectual of dragons, but he was not stupid. He had heard of the Legend of the Purple Dragon, although any information given was mostly through hearsay and rumours. Before he had even left the Artisan Homeworld he had perused the parchments written by Nestor, intended for only the eyes of his peers but the dragon pup had been unable to control his insatiable curiosity and disregard for authority.

He didn't want to entertain the idea that the legend could be referring to himself. Not only had there been many purple dragons before him and there would be many after him, including several dragons he had rescued from the talons of the Sorceress, Spyro still considered himself humble. He didn't want special treatment because he was the one to take up the gauntlet each time trouble arose, nor did he want to be considered to be 'above' anyone else because of his reputation.

Besides, he didn't embark on all those adventures just because some crusty old dragon had written it in a book. He did it because he  _wanted_  to.

Smiling to himself, he stood back on his feet. Whether there was any remaining magic in this Realm didn't matter – there were creatures that called this place 'home' and that made it worthy of protection. Vowing to return in the future, he turned his back on the once forgotten Realm and began the journey back to the Homeworld. He didn't want to keep Amos waiting.

As he was about to depart through the exit portal, Spyro turned his back to gaze at the Realm one more time. Something caught his eye – the spot he had been lying on had suddenly sprouted a vast array of flowers, all blooming in the dwindling sunlight in every colour of the rainbow. He raised an eyebrow, but didn't question it too much. After all, if dragons could bring their magic back to the Forgotten Realms, who was to say that dragons couldn't bring magic back to this Realm also? All it needed was one dragon to make a difference.

Well, Spyro had taken the role of the single dragon before. Who was to say he couldn't do it again.


	7. Chapter 7

(OK, I lied. There's one more chapter after this.)

* * *

Nestor wasn't expecting letters from the other leaders to come flying through his front door so soon.

The Artisan elder had eventually admitted defeat at the hands of the foreman from Idol Springs in his efforts to teach them how to craft idols  _without_  them coming to life; he collected his pay and swiftly moved on to the next horizon. He had been tentatively hopeful that some minor progress was being made, but after finding out that some of the more…  _creative_  foreman had been fashioning a small army of wooden hula girls for their own entertainment, which then broke loose and beat the apparently chauvinistic men up in a display that would have impressed even the strongest Peace Keeper. He had hedged his bets and bounced while the going was good.

His intentions were to travel to the volcanic Molten Crater and study their tiki heads next, but the unplanned reunion with Spyro had filled him with a scalding homesickness. Nestor hadn't realised how much his scaly heart ached for the boundless green pastures of the Artisan Homeworld, the sweeping spires of the castles, the gentle singing of the riverbeds. The worlds of Avalar and the Forgotten Realms held wonders beyond his imagination and he was loathe to pass such an opportunity up, but his mind still turned to the simple and humble pleasures of the Homeworld that had raised him.

The emerald dragon was caught off guard when he arrived to his home in Stone Hill to find a letter posted through his front door, presumably having been delivered even before he had returned. The parchment was neatly folded and was sealed with wax that shifted from pink to blue in the light; there was only one dragon Nestor knew who would enclose his letters in such an extravagant manner. The only way the Magic Crafter elder would have gotten this letter to the Artisan Homeworld before Nestor himself had arrived meant he had probably rejected Spyro's request.

Nestor felt heaviness in his heart at this realisation, but he wasn't overly surprised. Cosmos had defiantly refused to accept any apprentices regardless of the incessant pestering of the other leaders, so when Nestor had written the letter addressed to the seafoam green elder he hadn't been too optimistic at the outcome. He could see the other elders being open minded enough to consider the proposition – especially Titan, who had been nagging him for this opportunity for years – but Cosmos in particular was exceptionally stubborn and pompous. Nestor prayed that Spyro's resolve hadn't been shaken by the refusal.

Opening the tightly sealed letter, he was blasted in the face by a multitude of flames erupting from the wax.

Holding the parchment at his arm's maximum length he swatted away the sparks. Cosmos must be  **very**  unhappy for him to trap the letter with a spell, even thought it was clearly not intended to cause harm. More so, it was a direct reflection of Cosmos' feelings towards the green Artisan. Waiting until the shower of sparks ceased, Nestor puffed in irritation and unfurled the letter.

_Dear Nestor,_

_I hope this letter finds you well, you preposterous cretin._

As yes, it appeared that Cosmos was as mild mannered as he remembered.

_It seems more and more these days that one cannot have a single moment of peace to themselves. I find myself struggling with the newly hatched and returned dragon pups only to find, lo and behold, yet another stray dragon pup on my doorstep. As if I was not horribly overworked already, not that you would know what being overworked feels like._

_I do not know what game you are playing at sending Spyro to me, but whatever you are planning will not come to fruition. The Legend of the Purple Dragon is a myth, nothing more than hearsay, so while you still cling to your rudimentary beliefs we Magic Crafters do not! We look to the future of the Dragon Realms, the next step for magic and for all dragons alike! We shall not dwell upon the repercussions of a prophecy written eons before we were hatched, bleary eyed and stumbling into the world as we were!_

Cosmos' letter continued like this for several lines. Nestor had long taught himself not to be offended by the arrogant elder's insults – sometimes it seemed like Cosmos didn't know how to interact with others in any other fashion. The emerald dragon let the spiteful words wash over him and skipped a good paragraph or so until he could tell that Cosmos had got himself back on track.

_Anyway, back to what I was saying. Spyro is fortunate that he is owed such a great debt by us all, otherwise I would have sent him away. It is clear to me that he does not possess much in the way of natural talent when it comes to Magic Crafting, however I cannot deny that his capacity for magic is far stronger than would be expected, especially for a dragon that was not born a Magic Crafter himself. His skills are rudimentary, but nothing that a solid course of tutoring and perhaps a boot up his backside couldn't improve on, and I could see him finding success in the future if this is the path he wishes to choose for himself._

_Lastly, and I must stress that I mean this in the best of faith, I implore you to consider your intentions regarding this whole escapade. I am fully aware that many already believe the Legend of the Purple Dragon is indicative of our purple friend, however no dragon alive today could comprehend what this means for either Spyro himself or the rest of dragon-kind. Spyro is ultimately a child and deserves to have a gentle and conflict-free upbringing, although I am aware that he would disagree with this statement. I feel it may be best to let this ship sail undisturbed._

_Best wishes,_

_Cosmos xx_

Nestor grimaced and folded the paper back up. He and Cosmos did not have the best of relations and would never pretend to do more than tolerate each other, but there was no doubt that the emerald dragon held the Magic Crafter elder in high regard. He was a powerful wizard and scholar, possibly even the best of his kind, and was both reliable and reasonable. Mostly. Nestor had counted on him several times before to act as the voice of reason within the Council of Elders, a role which he was more than willing to accept even when it was not asked of him. Or indeed wanted of him.

The two clearly did not share their opinions of the Legend. Cosmos had long dismissed the prophecy as nothing more than a fairy tale, deserving only of inclusion in children's' storybooks, but Nestor still trusted in the magic within the words. It seemed that Cosmos was of the impression that encouraging Spyro to pursue his destiny would be detrimental to his growth as a young dragon, although Nestor believed that it would be instrumental in allowing the purple dragon to come into his own.

Shaking his head in exasperation, he dropped the letter on his desk and unhooked his tool belt. Both the belt and his jacket found their rightful place on a disused and slightly dusty coat hook. The emerald dragon was honestly surprised that Cosmos had even agreed to entertain Spyro's premise to begin with, so it was clear that Nestor was not the only elder of the opinion that the purple dragon had a lot of potential, prophecy or not. He noticed that his beloved succulent collection had turned a little yellow in his absence, and growled to himself. He should stop spending so much time worrying and focus on his duties as the leader of the Artisans. He had been away for far too long.

The nest letter found its way to him the following day.

Nestor had been assaulted almost immediately by Delbin, one of his closest confidants, who insisted that he accompany the ruby dragon to Sunny Flight to watch the hatchlings train. He wasn't sure if this was to witness how far the young dragons had come in his absence, or just to have a good chuckle over how many times they landed with their faces, but he had consented none the less. Observing the small dragons soar through the flight stage while narrowly avoiding mid-air collisions with each other had sent the elder dragon back to his memories of his own youth; the dragon pups would only face-plant into the ground so many times. It was amazing how quickly a dragon would learn when the only other option was to injure themselves.

While the two older dragons had sat on a grassy outcrop and placed bets on how long it would take before one of them wiped out in the shimmering blue ocean below, Nestor had been approached by a messenger fairy, desperately trying to keep afloat in the air with a large satchel bag over one shoulder. She had quickly handed the dragon a rolled scroll tied with a gold ribbon before teleporting away, clearly wanting to relive herself of the heavy burden. Nestor unfurled the scroll, feeling Delbin reading it over his shoulder, and inspected the contents. Thankfully, no fireworks this time.

_Oi, old man!_

_I see you finally changed your mind! Maybe you haven't gone senile after all!_

Well, there was only one leader who would speak to him in such a manner. Nestor snorted; Titan was only about a century his junior, but he spoke like Nestor was about to keel over from old age at any second.

_Thanks for sending Spyro over to me, I was hoping to keep him but it seems like he didn't want to hang around too long. I'm sure he'll have plenty of stories to tell you when he gets back. He's still a little too young to behave in the way we would need of him, but give him a couple of years and I'll gladly take him off your hands! He would make a fine Peace Keeper._

_Now, that being said, the letter you sent with him worries me a little. And I don't_ **_like_ ** _feeling worried, Nestor. There have been enough attempts to train any dragon born with purple scales in the hope that they would reveal themselves to be the dragon of the Legend, and all have failed. I've sat through enough of Asher's lectures on the subject to know that first hand. I'm convinced that the Legend isn't true, and even if it_ **_is_ ** _true then it doesn't ultimately matter. Just let the kid do what he wants._

_Also, can you send over some more of your weapons please? The Gnorcs keep getting into our stock and we're running low._

_Thanks in advance!_

_Titan_

"Sounds like Spyro's having fun, eh?" Delbin remarked, a knowing smirk on his face.

Nestor shook his head and rolled the scroll back up, slipping it into his tool belt. Titan was the youngest leader and it showed sometimes – although his prowess in battle and his ability to strategise had no peer, the green dragon couldn't help but feel a little insulted by the casual nature of his letter. He couldn't deny that the cocky leader was correct in some regards – Astor could talk for hours about the intense training he had endured after hatching when it was discovered that he shared the same scale hue as the dragon of lore.

Then again, Astor could talk for hours about anything.

For all Nestor wasn't surprised that the Peace Keeper leader had jumped at the opportunity to teach Spyro, he  _was_  surprised that he was recommending that the purple dragon mature for a couple years before proceeding, as if he was some kind of fine wine or cheese. Titan had practically grovelled at Nestor's feet in the past, hopeful for even a single chance to mould Spyro into a soldier, so the remark that he didn't believe that the dragon pup was ready for his teachings was very out of character. He didn't know that Titan was able to even comprehend the idea of maturity.

The penultimate letter arrived two days later.

Nestor had found himself drowning in a deep sense of anxiety when a letter failed to find its way to his front door on the third day. He would deny it to anyone who asked, but the idea of Spyro encountering any kind of difficulties on his trip filled him with dread, especially when Nestor had approved of the idea to begin with. The emerald scaled dragon felt a degree of responsibility for the young dragon, even though he knew he could look after himself just fine, so the lack of news had rattled his nerves a little.

Swigging down a bottle of iridescent sleep potion designed to fill his dreams with peace and relaxation, he awoke later than planned to find another letter stuck in his letter box, stained a suspicious green colour from some unknown nasty looking fluid. Nestor practically threw himself out of bed with his sheets tangled in his wings, noting that it was almost midday, and grasped at the letter, hoping for nothing but good news.

_Nestor,_

_Hello. I hope you are well. Please keep off the sleep potions._

Nestor grumbled and massaged his brow bone, the beginnings of a headache starting to form from oversleeping.

_Spyro came to speak to me. I_ **_hope_ ** _you're not trying to use him to get to the Beast Maker secrets. You know that won't work. He's made of tough stuff, but I'm not teaching him jack about our magic. Especially not if you sent him._

_The Legend of the Purple Dragon is not a good thing. How do you feel knowing that a dragon will come along who can do what we can but do it ten times better? Doesn't that make you concerned for our future? It's better to leave things as they are. Spyro's a good kid – don't involve him in this._

_Bruno_

Nestor snarled and roughly clambered back into bed, pulling his sheets over his eyes to block out the piercing sunlight. He hadn't used a Dream Weaver potion in a long time, not since he left the Dragon Realms to go adventuring through Avalar and the Forgotten Realms, so had forgotten how much of a headache they gave him. The green dragon refused to become dependent on them like so many others were, preferring to keep his senses sharp, but a good night's sleep was more than worth the inevitable discomfort that came with it.

Bruno was never known for his eloquence, the swampy elder coming across as abrupt or unkind even when it wasn't intentional. Nestor was almost certain that he was doing it intentionally in this case. Beast Makers were renowned for being superstitious to the point of paranoia, so for all Nestor's intentions had been misinterpreted he wasn't particularly amazed to hear that Bruno had interpreted Spyro's visit as an assault on their secretive way of life. Nor was he surprised to learn that Spyro hadn't been gifted knowledge of any of their magic.

At least at didn't sound like Bruno had sent the purple dragon packing with nothing to show for his visit. The large-horned elder's abrasive personality scared a lot of dragon pups, and Nestor knew the he appreciated that Spyro didn't see him as just an angry old man shouting at clouds. Not that he would ever admit that out loud. Rolling over in bed he blocked the glaring sun rays with his back and covered his head with one of his wings. Just a couple more minutes.

The final letter arrived on the fourth day.

Recovered from his migraine, Nestor had ventured out into the Realm with the intent to work on some of the bureaucratic drudgery that had piled up in his absence. Artisans had a stereotype of being unreliable, preferring to spend their time slaving over their individual arts instead of buckling down and dealing with the more unpleasant work, which Nestor couldn't necessarily disagree with. He knew he fit that mould and would much rather craft a fine oak table than fill in forms any day, but someone had to do it.

The Artisan leader was attempting to resolve a dispute occurring between Devlin and Alvar taking place in Town Square, both of whom had caught wind of Spyro's endeavours and were preparing a feast to celebrate his return. Oh, and Nestor's return too, they supposed. For all the two dragons shared very similar professions, it was almost impossible to get the duo to work together. They two just couldn't see eye to eye, arguing over whether a large multi-tiered cake or a barbecued hog roast would be more to the purple dragon's tastes. Neither dragon considered that Spyro would eat just about anything thrown at him without complaint.

Nestor had tried his best to diffuse the situation, but neither chef was interested in listening to an opinion that didn't fortify their own stance on the matter. The emerald dragon was almost relieved when the same messenger fairy approached him with another letter, seemingly more upset than before at being made to lug around two oversized letters. This one was folded neatly and carried a faint smell of incense. Ducking out of the kitchen, which was soon to become a battleground, Nestor unfurled the letter and perused the contents.

_My dear friend Nestor,_

_Salutations, my good man, best wishes to your health and family. It has been far too long since the two of us have had the time to hold a symposium and the arrival of your esteemed student prompted this letter, so I thought it best to grasp the opportunity by the horns. Considering that the state of our Realms becomes more and more fragile by the year, our friendship also becomes more valuable. Like an antique Bocote cabinet, or the most delectable Artisan wine, or-_

Nestor felt his eyes begin to glaze over. It wasn't just Lateef's potions that could put a dragon to sleep. Blinking and slapping himself lightly he skimmed the rest of the letter, amazed at how many metaphors the Dream Weaver elder could pack into one paragraph.

_Ah, I do apologise, it seems I may have gone on a tangent again. Back to the matter at hand. You can probably imagine my reprieve upon reading the letter you sent with young Spyro – I am gracious to know that another elder has not forsaken the prophecy written by my ancestors. The others may have turned their backs on the scriptures for fear of the consequences confined within the meaning of the words, but this will only delay the end results, not prevent them._

_I will be proposing a conjugation of the Council of Elders in due course to discuss this affair, preferably in a civilised manner, although we will have to see how the others deem best to respond. I hope to have your full cooperation in this sense, and I'm certain that Spyro would agree. I doubt that he is unaware of the prophecy at this point, even if efforts were made to protect his young mind from the daunting perils of the future. The Legend of the Purple Dragon cannot and_ ** _will_**   _not be allowed to escape our grasp._

_Oh, and Spyro did well at Dream Weaving. Sorry, my mind grows older and oft allows thoughts to slip through like a sieve. Please forgive me._

_Yours in all perpetuity,_

_Lateef_

Oh Lateef, as sesquipedalian as always.

"Does this mean Spyro will be coming back soon?!"

Nestor jumped, startled at the sudden exclamation from behind him while he was deeply focused on the contents of the letter. Both Devlin and Alvar had ceased in their spat and were frantically trying to catch a glimpse of the words on the parchment. Alvar seemed to be covered in large amounts of icing, the feud having turned physical at some point. The duo looked at each other in shock.

"We better start getting ready!" Devlin declared.

The two scattered in a flurry of activity, all qualms with each other thrown to the wind as they began to rapidly prepare. Nestor had never seen so much food produced in such a short amount of time before. He slowly backed away, content to leave the two to their own devices. At least the fighting was over.

Nestor wasn't sure if he considered Lateef to be a 'friend', per se, but out of all the leaders the two got along the easiest. Not that this was really saying much, but the Dream Weaver leader had a fascination with Artisan crafting, and Nestor suspected he was simply happy to speak to a dragon that didn't immediately write him off as being insane. He found that dealing with the royal blue dragon required a lot of patience, especially when it came to his vocabulary, but he was glad to have someone on his side.

Nestor considered his stance on the prophecy. Lateef had taken an almost maniacal stance on the situation, ready to throw himself head first into training Spyro to become the dragon of lore, but the emerald dragon wondered if that was necessary or even a good idea. His mind wandered back to the words of the other elders – Spyro was still a child. Would it be better to allow him to experience a carefree childhood first? Or would it make more sense to reveal his true nature to him while his mind and abilities were still malleable?

That was something that Nestor would leave for another day. Regardless, it seemed that the purple dragon would not keep them waiting for long and preparations would need to be made. He knew that Spyro would not appreciate a fuss being made over him, but the other Artisans were unable to control themselves when it came to celebrations. Nestor could recall more than one occasion that he had needed to pick himself up off the floor in Tree Tops after a heavy night of partying.

Well, if it was true that Spyro would be returning shortly, he supposed he had better make his own preparations.

* * *

Spyro hadn't returned when he was expected to.

Nestor swore the purple dragon was going to give him an aneurysm some day with all the stress he put the elder through. Sparx had touched down in the Artisan Homeworld alone, ferried by Marco who looked a little perplexed that he was shipping a dragonfly without their dragon. Nestor had instinctively feared the worst, although he could think of no logical reason as to why a dragonfly would have abandoned their dragon. Well, he could imagine a couple of reasons, but as his mind ticked over the possibilities the worry in his chest only grew deeper. None of the reasons were good news.

Sparx appeared to be equally concerned, his golden glow flickering in worry. The dragonfly had explained that Spyro had requested that he travel back without him, although the insect didn't know where the purple dragon had ventured to after he had departed on the Balloon. Nestor immediately felt a sense of foreboding sweep over him – he had made the decision not to involve Spyro in the Legends surrounding the colour of his scales until he was old enough, but there was no guarantee that the other leaders had done the same. He had no choice but to consider the possibility that the other leaders had brought the prophecy to the young dragon's attention before the time was right.

Nestor resolved not to allow his fortitude to be shaken. As leader it was his calling to be responsible for the well-being of his kin, but making decisions without Spyro present was unfair on the young dragon. He had just as much a say in his own future than any other dragon above his station. While the other Artisans were sorrowful to hear that Spyro would not be attending the impromptu party, the festivities still proceeded. Very little could come between an Artisan and a celebration.

When Spyro  **did** return, Nestor was ashamed to admit that he was a little hung over.

The first thing he noticed was that the dragon pup appeared to be in good spirits. The emerald elder was relieved at this but also a little confused: it may have just been the pounding of his head after spending one too many hours singing karaoke, but the contents of the parchments from the other elders had warned of a sour mood on the horizon. He felt joy knowing that the spunky attitude that the purple dragon was known for had not been extinguished.

The taller dragon allowed a smile to cross his face and wordlessly stepped back to allow the younger dragon to enter his home. Spyro trotted inside, his face flush as the heat indoors warmed his cheeks, to find himself face planted by a hysterical Sparx. The dragonfly whizzed around the purple dragon in a golden blur, somewhere between gratitude that Spyro had returned unharmed and fury that Spyro had left in the first place. The dragon took it in his stride; it was probably what he deserved after everything his best friend went through to protect him.

Nestor let out a puff of flame to boil a pot of water and made the two some herbal tea, kindly provided by Cosmos on one of his scarce good days. Spyro would inevitably turn his nose up at the drink but Nestor felt like he needed something to quell the churning in his stomach. He handed the dragon pup a ceramic mug and sat himself cross-legged on the floor, tucking his tail under himself to keep it warm.

"So," he began, taking a sip of the tea. "It sounds like you have a lot to tell me."

Spyro's face burst into a bright grin, his small fangs glinting in the light, and began to regale the elder with his stories. He explained about his misdemeanours with Magic Crafting, but tactfully left out the giant dinosaur that was probably still wreaking havoc in Cloud Temples. He recounted his adventures in Cliff Town, although Nestor was moderately doubtful that Spyro had used his newfound abilities with Magic Crafting to drop a warhead on the Gnorcs or that Sparx had turned into a kung fu werewolf. He detailed his experience in Misty Bog, covering how he wiped out the Attack Frog threat with explosives, and he relayed his attempts at Dream Weaving although Nestor could tell the purple dragon wasn't telling him the full story with that. He made a mental note to try and pry the facts out of Lateef later.

All the while, Nestor sipped his tea and took in the tale without interruption. It seemed that Spyro had encountered very little resistance on his trip, although he  _was_  going to have a word with Bruno when he got the chance – allowing such a young dragon anywhere near explosives was incredibly risky, never mind those damned frogs! As the story drew to a close, the green dragon rested his now empty mug on his tail and turned his attention to the dragon pup.

"It seems like the other leaders were welcoming, at least."

"Yeah," Spyro responded, sitting on his haunches. "The only one who wasn't totally open with me was Bruno. He wouldn't give me any info about what Beast Makers do in the slightest!"

Nestor wasn't shocked to hear this. Out of all the dragons the Beast Makers were by far the most reclusive, and considering that Bruno was already so opposed to the prophecy, Nestor expected nothing less. Still, each leader Spyro approached had offered him some small assistance in their own way.

"Has this cleared up the way you were feeling before?" he questioned, watching Spyro sniff the herbal tea and recoil in disgust.

"I'm… not sure," the purple dragon responded, meekly rubbing the spines on his head. "I'll admit that my impressions about what the other Realms did weren't up to scratch, but I kinda feel even more confused now."

Nestor nodded in pensive thought. He was grateful that he had never experienced the same feeling of self-doubt that the younger dragon was going through, and he honestly couldn't imagine what he would do if he found himself in the same situation. Spyro was too often written off as being nothing more than a hatchling, but even a blind dragon could see that his spirit was strong. Maybe even stronger than his own.

"Nestor?"

Pulled out of his momentary reverie, the emerald dragon blinked and looked back up at Spyro. The purple dragon was gazing up at him expectantly, head cocked to one side.

"Sorry, Spyro," Nestor apologised. "Please, go ahead."

Spyro shuffled back and forth on his feet, trying to get his words in order. The Artisan elder raised one curious eyebrow but said nothing, content to allow the young dragon to speak on his own time.

"So, uhh…" Spyro started, his head turned down. "Do you think the stories about me are true?"

"What stories?" Nestor replied. "You seem to have more stories to tell every time you come home."

Spyro laughed – he supposed this was true.

"The Legend of the Purple Dragon…" he continued. "Do you think it's about me?"

Nestor let out a long weary sigh and sat back on his arms, careful not to allow the ceramic mug to slip and crack against the wooden planks on the floor. He had spent a lot of time over the last few days contemplating how this conversation would pan out, the realisation of Spyro's fate now inevitable, but the letters he had received had caused his stance to waiver. His mind was filled with the words of the other leaders, spinning in his skull like a tornado.

"Spyro," he began carefully. "When Gnasty Gnorc trapped all of us in crystal, did you set out to save us because it was written that you would, or did you do it because you wanted to?"

Spyro watched the older dragon slowly stand up and collect both mugs, the scented liquid remaining in a pool in his own mug going unnoticed in the tense atmosphere. Nestor relocated the mugs to the nearby sink and returned to his stance in front of the young dragon.

"Did you agree to help the denizens of Avalar because you were told you had to, or because it was the right thing to do? When the Sorceress stole our eggs, did you brave the uncharted depths of the Forgotten Realms because it was predicted that you would do so, or because you were the best dragon for the job?"

He paused in his soliloquy to crouch down to the small dragon's level, patting him on the head affectionately.

"There have been many purple dragons before you, and there will be many after you. Whether the path you choose to take is predestined or not, that doesn't take away from the weight of your actions. To me it makes no difference if the Legend refers specifically to you, I imagine that you would have still acted the same regardless."

Spyro considered this for a moment before nodding.

"I guess it's up to me to decide if the Legend is true or not then!"

Nestor felt a burst of fatherly approval radiate in his chest at the young dragon's statement. He did not favour Spyro above any other dragon hatchling, including the most recently born ones, however the notion that a dragon under his care had grown both mentally and spiritually was undeniably pleasing. He extended one hand in a fist bump, which Spyro eagerly returned.

"I just wish there was some other way for me to have learned all this," Spyro mused. "That took me almost a full week."

"Perhaps," Nestor agreed, smiling warmly. "But they say that history is written by the victors. Maybe you could be the one to provide this information to those who find themselves in the same position in the future?"

Now that. That was an interesting thought.

* * *

Nestor remembered when Gnasty Gnorc had launched his first attack.

He was a tiny dragon runt, small in stature and demeanour after hatching before he was due, even his scales dull in colour and sparse against his shoulders. The green dragon pup was raised with love, the accommodating atmosphere of the Artisan Homeworld ideal for raising children, alongside dragons who nurtured a sense of adventure and intellect in their kind. His diminutive size often prevented him from being able to participate in activities with the other hatchlings for fear he would be stepped on, and was often forced to witness events from the sidelines while his more developed brethren blazed ahead.

Nestor was never content with the hand he was dealt. He was grateful that he was not born a Peace Keeper or his size would have made him unfit for battle, but he felt ostracised by his peers none the less. Watching dragon pups the same age as him roam freely through the Realms, catching bugs and going swimming while he was barred from anything that would put his already ailing physique under stress ate away at him inside. Thankfully the Artisans did not put a great deal of weight behind physical prowess.

When the green dragon had reached adolescence he first heard of the Gnorc running rampant throughout the Dragon Realms. There was no clue as to his origins or even his intentions really, but some of the elders were growing concerned. What was previously nothing more than a large lumbering oaf calling himself 'Gnasty' was now quickly gaining support, with bandits and stray thieves swearing their allegiance to the green monster. Those who were no threat on their own before found strength in numbers, and although the goblins could be taken down in one hit easily, dealing with large numbers of them at once would be a task for only the strongest dragon.

The Homeworlds each reacted differently to the impending threat. The Peace Keepers wanted to put together an armed squadron to preemptively vanquish the threat, but the others felt this was a waste of both resources and time that could be better used elsewhere. The Magic Crafters wanted to use magic to seal the Gnorc away, but the actual numbers of the Gnorc's followers were not known so the spell was unlikely to completely eliminate them. The Dream Weavers wanted to sleep, so were mostly ignored. And the Artisans…

Well, the Artisans were content to do nothing at all.

Nestor didn't agree to this decision in the slightest, but it wasn't as if a dragon whelp like him could have a say in such a decision. The Artisans didn't wish to involve themselves, determining that the ongoing peace of the Realm was more important than the troubles that would be brought about by the conflict. They wanted to use their time to craft works of art, cook food with new and bold flavours, write symphonies and vignettes. They did not wish to dirty their hands with the blood of their enemies.

When Gnasty struck for the first time, it was not to be the last.

With every Homeworld holding a different stance on the rising conflict, no action ended up being taken which meant that the seed of dissent had been allowed to grow freely. Nestor did not know where the minions had found the weapons and armour, crude as they were, but the element of surprise was on their side. Throwing themselves over the castle walls of Stone Hill the Gnorcs had attacked during the night and laid their weapons upon the hides of the unsuspecting dragons.

Nestor didn't remember much about the fierce battle that ensued, the hatchlings being whisked away to safety as soon as the fighting begun, but it was clear to even his immature eyes that the dragons were unprepared for such an assault. The armour worn by the monsters did little to deflect horns or fire but this was made up for in sheer numbers. The last he saw before being teleported away to safety was the Artisan leader, a frail old dragon with tattered wings and shaky hands but a mind more creative than any seen before him, throw down his walking cane and shuffle into battle. A captain always goes down with his ship, so to speak.

Nestor did not know what befell the dragons that stayed to fight, but he never saw the leader again.

Now that the threat imposed by the army had revealed itself, clawing it's way into the light with fangs bared, the Council of Elders were able to reach a decision for once in their lives. The Peace Keepers assaulted the army with fire and weapons made of the hardest diamonds known to dragon-kind and crafted by the most experienced Artisans. Once the numbers had been thinned to a manageable amount, the Magic Crafters summoned their most wizened wizards who Crafted a spell powerful enough to contain a brute like Gnasty within its cage for several hundred years. The Gnorc was lured out by the promise of victory and promptly whisked away to the long abandoned Dragon Junk Yard, disappearing in an explosion of purple light. The elders relented that the loss of the sixth Dragon Realm was an acceptable casualty.

What was briefly the darkest time in dragon history became an age of hope. While Nestor had never really developed the strength of his peers, preferring to rely of the strength of his charisma instead, the attack had inadvertently formed a bond of brotherhood between the once distant Dragon Realms. The inaction of the worlds had almost cost them everything they held dear, and they would not permit this to happen again.

Nestor was unhappy with what the Artisans stood for. He didn't deny that combat was not exactly something anyone would trust a playwright with, but the inaction of his superiors had cost the dragons their lives. The Artisans suffered under the stereotype of being unreliable which the emerald dragon had always detested, but now he could understand why others felt this way.

Rather than feeling defeated or disqualified by this realisation, Nestor vowed to change himself. If he wanted other dragons to see the Artisans as something  _other_  than lazy and good-for-nothing, he first needed to reflect this in himself. Even after he found his calling as a carpenter he kept his creed in mind, pushing for motivation within his community to encourage change.

He swore under his name as leader that no Artisan under his rule would allow their inaction to taint their name again.


	8. Epilogue

(And that's a wrap. Thank you to everyone who came on this journey with me, especially to all those who took the time out of their day to leave a review. The support I've received writing this has been overwhelming, and I can't express how grateful I am. I hope you decide to stick around - this story might be over but I hope that this will not be the end. The story ended up being 45,663 words and I'm not even kidding, so thanks to everyone who bothered to get this far!

Also, a pat on the back to anyone who notices the hidden reference in this chapter. Sorry, I couldn't help myself lol)

* * *

Nestor had found himself in this situation many times before.

The emerald green Artisan leader was perhaps not so emerald green any more, his old age having finally caught up to him and tinted his scales with a reflective silver hue. More and more he found himself relying on a cane to keep his spine upright, able to hobble short distances unaided but standing for long periods of time made his legs quiver with the strain. His eyesight had deteriorated to the point where he had to wear glasses thick enough to beat a Gnorc to death with, but even though his body was past his prime Nestor still didn't feel a day over 100 years old.

Well, that's what he told himself anyway. His joints would probably disagree with him.

Smiling to himself, the Artisan leader folded the corner of the page he was perusing to keep his place and snapped the cover of the tome closed, the magic sewn into the thread of the purple velvet cover weaving together and locking the book from prying eyes. He gently slipped the book back into its rightful home on the shelf of the bookcase, the gap created by its absence a perfect mould of it's form due to how tightly packed the shelf was. He grasped the jewel-encrusted head of his cane in one hand and used it to steady his stance as he turned to face his guest.

Kage would describe himself as self-assured, zesty, and a natural born leader, but his peers would probably describe him as arrogant and brutish. The small dragon hatched maybe only one or two clutches ago, although he walked around the Homeworld like he was five times his size and with an ego to match. His pastel blue scales almost glowed with the pale moonlight falling upon the grass of Dark Hollow, and the tip of a second pair of horns behind his existing pair peeked through the skin on his scalp. Accompanying him was his dragonfly, who constantly emitted a light pink glow except when she stood in for any damage that the young dragon took. And Kage took a  _lot_  of damage in his various over-the-top schemes. His dragonfly was very patient.

"You seem to be very certain about this," Nestor pondered, gazing down the glasses balanced on the pit of his snout at the young dragon. Kage puffed out his chest in response.

"Yep!" he declared boldly. "I wanna be like those heroes in all the stories you told me. I wanna fight some bad guys and kick some butt, and I can't do that here! Please, let me train with the Peace Keepers!"

Nestor snorted in amusement and grinned widely. The aging elder had heard many stories about the young dragon in question from his tutors; most were concerned about his lack of self-preservation when it came to throwing himself horns first into any trouble he could get his claws on. Only last week he and a couple of his clutch-mates had been given a month of kitchen patrol after they were found terrorising the sheep in Toasty to see how many they could stack on top of each other before the improvised totem pole collapsed.

The sky blue dragon's request was not completely unique. Nestor was reminded of another dragon, small for his age but full of spirit who had made an eerily similar request many years prior. Although the intentions behind the two appeals were worlds apart, with Kage seemingly looking for glory rather than for self-realisation, Nestor still felt a wave of nostalgia roll over him. Cosmos would tell him that he was just becoming soft in his old age, but he found that rejecting the pleas of any dragon pup almost caused him physical pain.

"Well, Kage," he laughed, "I must say you seem to have thought a lot about this!"

Kage nodded eagerly and tried to puff his chest out even further to prove his might in an attempt to convince the elder to approve of his demands.

"But right now, I must decline your request."

The dragon pup deflated as quickly as he had puffed himself up.

"Aww, come on! Pleeeeease…" he whined nasally, tail flicking in irritation.

Nestor ignored the pleading dragon pup and turned back to the oak bookshelf behind him. He leaned in to try and get his eyes to focus on the spines of the books, his nose grazing the violet velvet lining as he scanned the shelf for one particular volume. Locating the book he was looking for, he carefully wiggled it out of its position, fearing that any sudden movements may cause the whole precarious collection to fall down on top of him. As the book broke free of the pile the others filled in the space left behind, swallowing the gap as if it was never there. Nestor really needed to build a new bookshelf for all of these.

"Firstly," he began, turning back to the blue dragon pup. "The Peace Keepers are not heroes like in your stories. They are normal dragons, just like you and I, and very  _busy_ dragons at that. I cannot simply ask them to stop in their patrols and take the time to tutor you when they may already be engaged with something else."

Kage groaned heavily, realising that he was maybe being a little forward and dropped his head in shame. He had spent so many late nights lying awake dreaming of taking to the skies and bridging the gaps between the Dragon Realms with fire on his wings and in his heart that he had not considered needing the consent of more than just the Artisan elder.

"Secondly," Nestor continued. "Your teacher told me that you haven't been turning in your assignments on time. There is no way I could justify interrupting your existing studies for another venture without trust that you would not fall behind in the meantime."

"But-" Kage tried to protest only to be silenced by a single palm held out by Nestor.

"And thirdly," he surmised. "You still have one week of your kitchen patrol to finish, yes?"

Kage reluctantly grumbled and shuffled his feet meekly before relenting. The green dragon shook his head – he had always detested the mindset that so many of his own elders took regarding children. He had suffered through many rants from the other leaders about how children these days didn't have enough respect, or enough drive, or didn't turn the lights off when they left a room. The last thing Nestor wanted was to replicate such a toxic mindset in his own actions. He had vowed several centuries ago that he would not expect anyone else to hold a virtue unless he himself demonstrated the same in his own actions, and this stance had not changed.

"That being said," Nestor stated, crouching down to the level of the smaller dragon, "It takes a lot of guts to approach your superior and ask to be transferred elsewhere, and I applaud that. Very few dragons could find the strength of spirit to defend their ideals in the face of opposition, including those older than you are."

Kage looked up in tentative optimism to find Nestor presenting him with a book he had never seen before. Reaching out he gently took it from the grasp of the emerald elder and ran his claws over the cover. The tome was bound with royal purple velvet that left trails every time his palms ran across the surface, and was lined with golden thread that seemed to reflect rainbows when the light of the full moon bounced off the surface. The book screamed opulence as if it was only fit for the touch of a king. Kage felt a little humbled simply by being allowed to hold the pages within his grasp, an emotion which was amplified ten fold when his eyes took in the name of the author.

"…S-Spyro the Dragon?" he stuttered, eyes wide in awe. "The  _Chronicler?!_ "

Nestor allowed a slight chuckle to escape under his breath. Spyro would never let him live it down if he found out that dragons were calling him by that moniker. For all the nickname was decidedly fitting for his profession, the purple dragon had cringed every time the name was used to refer to him. Nestor had never discovered the true reason for this and was content to respect the dragon's wishes, although the same could not be said for the legions of fans that religiously followed his every move.

"That's the one," the emerald dragon replied, a twinkle in his eye. "Many years ago, Spyro approached me with a similar request. He was barely older than a hatchling at the time, probably about the same size as you are now, and he ventured across all the Dragon Realms and beyond to find his true calling. When he discovered his purpose, he collated all the information he had gathered on his journey and wrote it down for the generations to come."

Nestor stood back up tall, fervently ignoring the aching pain shooting down his back at the movement, and centered his weight on his cane. Kage had not looked away from the exquisite cover of the book as if it was an illusion and would vanish into thin air if he let it out of his sight.

"You see, the worlds are not as black and white as we once believed they were. Just because you're an Artisan does not mean that you can't possibly be good at anything else, and Spyro knew this better than any other dragon I've ever met."

Kage stared up at the Artisan leader with a look of shock in his eyes.

"Is it really OK for me to have this?" he questioned quietly, the weight of the situation beginning to fall on him.

"I mean, you need to return it when you're done…" Nestor replied. "Tell you what, if you finish your kitchen patrol  _and_  hand your next project in on time, I'll speak to Titan and try and sort something out. But I need your word on this."

Kage managed to tear himself away from the cover of the book to look upwards at the taller dragon. Spyro was an idol to him – a dragon who was born an Artisan but had found his calling travelling the worlds on a never-ending adventure, dragonfly in hand, kicking all kinds of butt. Kage would've given his right wing to have a chance to meet the purple dragon and shake his hand even once. The pastel blue dragon's eye wandered from the face of the green elder towards the bookshelf that he had retrieved the tome from.

Dark Hollow was known for it's extensive collection of literature of all varieties, with bookcases reaching from the floor to the ceiling and crammed into every available corner, but this was something else.

The bookshelf was practically bursting at the seams, stuffed to capacity with identical velvet lined books that threatened to spill out at any moment. The spines betrayed their contents, with books covering the arts of Magic Crafting and Dream Weaving, bestiaries from Realms he had never even heard of, advanced flying techniques, it seemed that everything Kage could think of could be found somewhere within the words. He even spotted several volumes covering the elusive Beast Maker magic. Just how many of these had Spyro written?!

Nestor waited patiently as Kage continued to stare blankly. He wondered if maybe giving him a book written by his idol had been too much for the young dragon. His dragonfly rolled her eyes and nudged him with her head. The pastel blue dragon shook himself out of his stupor and stood on his hind legs and gave a salute.

"Aye aye sir!"

"That's what I wanted to hear!" Nestor laughed. "If you ever run into Spyro make sure to tell him that you read his books. His reaction is always hilarious."

Nestor raised an eyebrow as the young troublemaker scampered off, energetically regaling his dragonfly with details of the purple dragon's various adventures that she had probably heard a million times before. The Artisan elder adjusted the glasses balanced on the end of his nose and turned his attention back to the shelf behind him. He was lucky if Spyro returned to the lush green pastures of his birthplace even once a month, appearing unannounced and arriving on an airship alongside one of the many Balloonists. Nestor wondered how many Balloonists had taken up the mantle after hearing tales of how they were instrumental in the purple dragon's quest to save the Dragon Realms from Gnasty.

It seemed like Spyro left an impact on everyone who came into contact with him.

The purple dragon was undoubtedly busy but Nestor was touched that he took the time to visit the aging elder. The two would sit and talk for hours, herbal tea in hand, while Spyro would reel off all the new worlds he had discovered and the enemies he had taken down along the way. He spoke of deserts encroached by freezing tundras, lands where stew spewed from volcanoes like lava, and worlds where the moon was less than an hour's flight away and gravity was nothing more than a fleeting thought. Some worlds had never met a dragon before, and some didn't even know they existed in the first place. Somehow, the dragon always found his way back home.

Nestor had repeatedly attempted to convince Spyro to take the role of Artisan leader so he could step down, but the purple dragon had declined every time with that deep bellowing laugh of his. He had found the freedom he craved in the skies of uncharted lands and the oceans of uninhabited realms. He was on the sidelines of every war, the peak of every mountain, the depth of every chasm with his dragonfly on his shoulder and his pen in his hand. No, he would not give his dream up for the world. Nestor couldn't blame him - if he didn't take such a long time getting his stiffening body out of bed in the morning he would have considering joining the duo on their excursions.

Speaking of Sparx, Nestor was surprised to find the golden dragonfly was still with them on every visit. Most insects didn't live beyond a dragon's adolescence, dying of inevitable old age just as their dragon was grown enough to no longer need their support, but Sparx had remained. Sure, he couldn't fly very well and mostly rode around on Spyro's shoulder, but his longevity was staggering. Nestor wondered if the roles had reversed – Sparx's role once was to keep Spyro alive and kicking using his magic to shield him from harm, but perhaps Spyro's own vast magic reserves was now doing the same for his friend. The two had described themselves as inseparable and Nestor didn't doubt them did one second.

The duo would bring stacks and stacks of notebooks and loose paper with them every time they returned, sometimes required two or more Balloonists to make the journey home to carry the avalanche of documents. Nestor would read over the paper while Spyro redrew his sketches, recording them in almost lifelike detail in charcoal as if the monsters could reach out of the page and attack at any moment. The purple dragon had once attempted that exact feat using a spell he had Crafted, finally finding an equilibrium between the use of Sigils and his own natural talent, which had allowed him to draw pictures that actually moved as if they were real. This ended when some of the Gnorcs he drew for his volume on Gnorc Gnexus escaped the pages of the book and attempted to wage a war against the stationary illustrations in Darius's copy of Pride and Prejudice. Spyro might be an adult now, but he never grew out of his tendency for getting himself into trouble.

Once the mounds of paper had been looked over they were passed into the eager hands of Oswin, who had found no shortage of work since Spyro had started his quest. The pages were collated, bound and sealed within each tome and somehow squeezed into the bulging confines of Spyro's dedicated bookshelf. Together with the numerous copies that had been distributed throughout the other Dragon Realms there were likely enough books written by the purple dragon to outnumber the entire population of the Realms and then some. Nestor had always promised he would dig out his old hammer and chisel, long disused since his hands had become too shaky to reliably craft anything of value, and would one day get around to making a second bookshelf. The amethyst dragon would always playfully tease the elder about this, but his duties as leader always kept his hands full.

Shaking his head at the thought, Nestor began his slow shuffle back to Stone Hill. His body became weaker every day and sometimes it took him a moment to get going if he stood still for too long, but his mind was as sharp as ever and clung to every piece of information it could grasp. Years worth of carpentry techniques still sung in his brain, desperate for one more chance to express themselves in a piece that the emerald dragon could call his final magnum opus, but he knew such delicate work was beyond his capabilities now. Instead, he fed his prowess into his apprentice, a sprightly dragon with horns curled like a ram, who could at least hold a chisel without the worry of taking someone's eye out.

Every visit from Spyro ended the same way.

For all the purple dragon now stood over a head taller than Nestor these days, a fact which Spyro was more than happy to bring up at any opportunity, the Artisan elder still felt a great deal of responsibility for his well-being. Spyro's abilities far outweighed his own in almost every way but Nestor couldn't help but wish he was able to assist in their ventures in a more direct manner. After his latest book was completed, Spyro had inevitably left the Realm looking towards the horizon for his next adventure. Nestor offered the proposition again, requesting that he replace him as leader of the Artisans, and Spyro would refuse again. He would throw his signature carefree smirk over one shoulder, offer a wave, and always left with the same advice.

"Aim high in life, but watch out for flying boxes!"

Nestor still had no idea what he was talking about.

Upon reaching his home he set his cane down by his desk, slipping it into the wooden basket alongside the dozen others. When Nestor had finally admitted that his age was starting to catch up with him he decided to use it to his advantage rather than allow it to hold him back, which manifested in his teachings. Invariably the first task he assigned to any prospective students was to craft a cane using any materials or techniques they liked. Not every cane had turned out to be...  _functional_ , some not even resembling canes at  _all_  in their design, but every tool was a reflection of the personality of its creator. He was sure some of his former students would die of embarrassed if they knew he kept a hold of their failed implements, but a dragon's first crafted tool was just as valuable as their last and Nestor still felt joy looking back at where they had started their journeys and swung how far they had come.

Besides, it was always fun to break them out at birthday parties. They made good blackmail material.

Removing his jacket, he moved to hang it on it's usual hook as he did every night, but hesitated for the first time in years. His old tool belt still hung on the hook, the tan leather slightly dusty and ill-fitting after years of disuse, but still in its rightful place where it had resided since he picked up the chisel for the first time. Nestor couldn't remember the last time he had donned his gadgets and carved something that he could call his own. He had resigned himself to the limitations caused by his old age, but his heart still yearned to express itself in the only way it knew how.

Even after all these years, Spyro couldn't give him a moment of peace. Maybe it was about time that he made that bookshelf he kept putting off.

Unknown to the elder, the pastel blue dragon was huddled under his bed sheets in his dorm, his face daintily illuminated by the soft pink glow of his slumbering dragonfly. Even while she slept, exhausted after a day of listening to Kage ramble on about the unbelievable exploits of the purple dragon, she still gave off enough of a subtle glow to light up his surroundings, and Kage was far too excited to sleep. He kept running his hands over the cover of the book, feeling the soft velvet caress the skin between his claws and giggling quietly. The book claimed to detail Peace Keeper strategies, covering formations and attack patterns that Kage hoped he could memorise. When Nestor finally caved in and gave him what he wanted the Peace Keepers would be so impressed!

Careful not to disturb his snoozing friend he flipped the book to read the blurb on the back. The words were sewn into the fabric of the book cover with the same golden thread that lined the edges, illuminated just barely enough by the gleam emitting from his dragonfly to be legible.

_This book is dedicated to anyone who felt like they didn't belong. May the strength of your spirit guide you to your final destination, however long your journey may be._

_This book is also dedicated to Nestor. Thank you for putting up with me all these years._

Snorting in an attempt to hold in a giggle, he turned the book back over. He still couldn't believe that he was in possession of a piece of work created by the legendary purple dragon, the Chronicler himself! He was a little star struck. His mind filled with thoughts of prancing across the endless plains of Dry Canyon and climbing the dunes of Cliff Town, he licked his lips in anticipation, braced himself, and finally opened to the first page.

And began to read.


End file.
